


December

by Elvendork



Series: Calendar Verse [4]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-01-20 15:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1515329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it is Christmastime in the Knapp-Shappey-Shipwright household, but not everyone is feeling the festive spirit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do You Want To Build A Snowman?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it takes me so long between updates in this series, which has managed to end up with posting a Christmas fic in April...but I mean it's better than making you wait till next December, right?!
> 
> There were a lot of things I wanted to include in this installment and it was making a one-shot too cluttered, so there will be at least two and probably three chapters. 
> 
> You probably do need to have read at least September for this to make sense. There are also references to October.
> 
> No owning/profit etc...And a massive thank you as ever to my beta, [prettybirdy979](http://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979)!

‘Douglas?’ Martin asks tentatively, pausing in his colouring-in to look up at his brother.

‘What?’ Douglas does not move his gaze from his maths book, but he does stop writing for a moment. Both boys are sitting at the dining room table, which has the detritus from their respective activities scattered all over it. Martin is putting the finishing touches to a rather lopsided drawing of a donkey; Douglas is halfway through his homework.

‘Do you think I really _will_ get to be Gabriel?’ Martin is biting his lip, though Douglas can’t see.

Douglas shrugs and resumes writing. ‘How should I know?’ he demands testily. ‘I wasn’t even there when you auditioned.’

‘But –’ Martin stops. He isn’t sure how to continue. The idea that Douglas not only can’t answer his question, but _admits_ as much is… disconcerting.

‘Were you any good?’ Douglas asks.

‘I… I don’t know,’ Martin admits, now thoroughly regretting bringing the subject up in the first place. He recognises his brother’s mood, and it isn’t one that welcomes conversation. It is also one that he has been in increasingly often of late.

‘Well then you probably weren’t, so you probably haven’t got it,’ replies Douglas bluntly. He scowls as he erases a mistake on his homework and sets about filling in the correct answer instead. There is silence for a moment. Douglas had expected a reply. He glances up – and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Martin is staring at him with wide, tearful eyes and parted lips, as though unable to think of a response. He looks devastated. Douglas sighs and lays down his pencil.

‘Look –’ he begins, but Martin shakes his head.

‘Fine,’ he says, and his voice would be like acid if it weren’t shaking so much. ‘I’ll ask _Herc_ instead!’

It is calculated to hurt, and hurt it does. Martin pushes himself forcefully away from the table and nearly lands flat on his face in his hurry to get out. Douglas half-rises from his chair, near reeling from the unexpectedly harsh blow of his brother’s words.

‘Martin –’ but his brother is already gone. With a sudden shout of rage Douglas hurls his pencil across the room and takes grim satisfaction when it collides with the ridiculous hand-made (by Arthur) paper chain strung across the top of the front window, knocking it to the ground. ‘Fine!’ he snaps furiously. ‘FINE!’ he shoves his exercise book away, stands up, and storms from the room, temper blazing hot and abrupt in his chest. He stamps his feet all the way upstairs and as soon as he reaches his own room he slams the door and throws himself face-first onto his bed.

He would cry, if he was the type to cry, but they would be tears of frustration rather than grief. He is confused. He is – though he would sooner cut out his own tongue than admit it – afraid.

He has a decision to make, very soon, and he doesn’t know what to do.

 _He doesn’t know what to do_.

Worse still, he doesn’t even know what he _wants_ to do.

Three months ago, give or take, Hercules made him a promise. If Douglas behaved himself and did well in school until the end of the year, Herc would buy him an X-Box. It seems a stupid deal now, but it had been the first thing to spring to mind. So far, Douglas has – _almost_ flawlessly – kept up his end of the bargain. If Herc keeps his, Douglas has to trust him.

If Herc buys him an X-Box for Christmas, Douglas has to trust him.

Douglas doesn’t want to trust him. Except – he _does_.

If you had asked him the day after the deal was made, Douglas would have known exactly what was going to happen. Not what he _hoped_ would happen, because that was irrelevant and he hadn’t even considered it; he knew what was _going_ to happen. Herc was going to forget, or claim Douglas hadn’t kept up his end of the bargain, or come up with some other excuse for not sticking to his word. Always assuming he was even still around by Christmas, anyway.

If you had asked him six weeks ago, he would have avoided the question. Six weeks ago Douglas had been shaken to his core by the realisation that – even now he finds it hard to just form the thought – he _wanted Herc to stay_. He _wants_ Herc to stay.

Previously, it had made no difference to him. He had been _waiting_ for Herc to leave, had never made any effort to make his mother’s fiancé feel welcome – quite the opposite, in fact – and had simply wanted the whole ordeal over with as soon as possible. So if Herc made a promise and then failed to keep it, all to the good; hopefully it would, if not hasten his departure, at least give Douglas a solid, defendable reason for his mistrust. An excuse to say _I told you so_. If Herc made a promise and _did_ keep it, well, then that made no difference either, because hadn’t his father made and broken promises far more serious than this? Hadn’t Gordon? Wouldn’t Herc, eventually?

Over time, the rationale behind the original deal had gained a sort of hold on his mind, though. He had almost started to believe that if Herc really _did_ keep this promise, then he really _might_ stay. Which had still not necessarily meant Douglas _wanted_ him to, but then…

But then he had helped Martin down from the tree. Douglas had been forced to trust him, just for a few moments – and not only that, but admit to it, out loud, in front of _witnesses_ – in the midst of his own absolute panic, _Herc_ had been the one who had helped. Who had rescued Martin, comforted all four of them with his dependable – his – his, alright, _dependable_ – calmness, and even made their excuses to Carolyn later.

It had been probably the most confusing moment of Douglas’s life.

Until now.

Because now he has actually considered the possibility that Herc might keep his promise. He has felt _hope_ at the prospect.

It terrifies him. If Herc does keep his promise, Douglas has to trust him, which will only make it even worse if – _when_ – he really does leave. If Herc doesn’t keep his promise, Douglas can’t trust him. Ever. That was the deal. And while that will make the eventual inevitable departure less painful… Douglas is tired of being suspicious. He _wants_ to believe that Herc will stay. He is terrified of what will happen if Herc sticks to his word, and terrified of what will happen if he won’t.

He doesn’t know what to _do_.

He sits up suddenly and pushes his pillow away as if it has personally offended him. This just isn’t fair. He leans against the wall behind him (and pretends, although no one is around to see, that the force of throwing himself into it in his frustration doesn’t hurt his back) and folds his arms. This is ridiculous, and he hates it, and it is _all Herc’s fault_.

He is just trying to think of a suitable punishment for his prospective step-father when a gentle knock at the closed door makes him jump. The resulting embarrassment only makes his scowl deepen.

‘Go away,’ he snaps, pulling his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms around them.

‘Douglas?’ The door opens slowly. It is not Martin, or even Herc, as Douglas had expected, but Arthur.

‘What do you want?’

Arthur doesn’t reply. He frowns for a moment at Douglas’s face, closes the door conscientiously behind him, and clambers up onto the bed to wrap his arms around his brother’s overly tense shoulders.

‘What are you doing?’ Douglas demands, pushing Arthur away irritably.

‘Giving you a hug.’

‘I can _see_ that,’ Douglas rolls his eyes, shuffling away and getting to his feet. ‘ _Why_?’

‘Because you look sad,’ Arthur explains simply, following suit.

‘I’m not sad,’ Douglas replies immediately.

‘Yes you are,’ Arthur insists, ‘but that’s okay.’

Douglas turns his back on Arthur and moves over to the window, leaning his elbows on the sill and resting his chin on his hands. ‘Go away,’ he says again. In the few seconds of silence that follow, Douglas dares to hope that Arthur has (for once) listened to him. A sudden scuffle at his feet dashes those hopes, however, and he looks down to see Arthur struggling to reach up and copy Douglas’s pose.

‘Is there anything I can say to make you leave me alone?’ Douglas sighs.

‘No,’ Arthur is hopping to try and put his elbows on the windowsill, but as the ledge is about level with the top of his head he is having no such luck.

‘If I let you stay, will you be quiet?’

‘Yes.’

‘No you won’t,’ Douglas counters, but nevertheless he reaches down and hoists Arthur up to sit on the windowsill in front of him. It isn’t really wide enough – maybe fifteen centimetres or so – but as long as he doesn’t wriggle too much and Douglas stands close enough for him to lean on, it will do. Both of them turn their gaze to the darkening back garden, the glow of sunset just barely visible behind the clouds and above the opposite row of houses. Douglas feels a little of his earlier anger fading away, and is content for the moment just to watch, comforted – though he would never admit it – by the steady rise and fall of his brother’s chest beside his own. A presence that he knows will not leave, even if he tells it to.

Almost a full three minutes (an impressive feat, for Arthur) pass in blissful silence before Arthur speaks again.

‘Why are you sad?’ he asks, and his voice is curious, confused, and sympathetic all at once.

‘I told you I’m not sad,’ Douglas pokes Arthur’s side, which make his little brother squirm and Douglas has to hold him steady to stop him falling off his perch. ‘You will be if you keep annoying me though.’

‘Why did you yell at Martin then?’

‘I didn’t yell at him.’

‘You were angry,’ Arthur insists.

‘I’m getting angry now.’

‘Why?’

‘If you keep asking me questions I’m going to push you out of the window.’

Even Arthur can tell the threat is not a genuine one, or if he can’t he still doesn’t seem to care, and simply fixes Douglas with the most severe gaze that he can muster. It is surprisingly effective.

‘It’s complicated,’ Douglas relents, and if he leans forward a little and the action could almost be perceived as a hug – it is an apology to Arthur, nothing more. He is certainly not seeking comfort for himself. (Arthur wraps a hand around his brother’s shoulder anyway.)

‘That’s what Mum says when she doesn’t want to talk about it.’

‘Take a hint, then,’ Douglas moves back abruptly, but Arthur’s hand tightens on his collar and he doesn’t get very far.

‘DOUGLAS!’

‘It’s okay, I won’t let you fall!’ Douglas instinctively responds with a leap of concern, moving back again quickly to prevent Arthur tumbling to the floor.

‘No – LOOK!’ Arthur is pointing frantically towards the garden, wriggling to pull his arm from around Douglas’s shoulders and shake off his brother’s grip – actually trying to stand up on the windowsill and pressing his face against the glass. ‘Look, Douglas, look! SNOW! _It’s snowing_!’

‘What? Where? I can’t see anything!’ The speed with which Douglas returns to the window and tries to crane around Arthur to get a glimpse outside is embarrassing, and he is glad there is no one else around to see it.

‘Snow! Snow, look, snow!’

‘I _can’t_ look; you’re standing in my way! And stop jumping around; you’re going to fall off!’

‘Can we make a snowman, Douglas? Please, please, _please_ can we make a snowman?’ Arthur is jumping up and down in his excitement, in serious danger of either falling from the ledge or hitting his head on the ceiling – or both. It is all Douglas can do to prevent his brother injuring himself in his exuberance, let alone manage to spot whatever elusive snowflakes are working him up so much.

‘You’re going to hurt yourself,’ Douglas snaps, trying and failing to hold Arthur still. ‘Stop _jumping_ , I can’t even see –’

‘THERE!’ exclaims Arthur, ‘There, I saw it, it’s _snow_!’ Without warning he twists around, sits down and slips from the ledge to land with a soft _thud_ on the floor. He barely pauses for a moment before tearing out of the room and down the stairs, shouting all the way. ‘It’s snowing! Herc, Martin, it’s snowing! Look outside!’

‘ _Arthur_!’ Douglas calls, rushing after his brother barely a second later, ‘Slow _down_ , you’re – _Arthur_!’

He bursts into the living room moments after Arthur to find both of his younger brothers already with their noses and hands pressed against the glass of the front window. The paper chain has been neatly pinned back in place and when Martin turns towards him there is no trace of resentment left in his expression, only wide-eyed excitement and a delighted grin.

‘It’s snowing, Douglas!’ he exclaims, quickly returning his gaze the window, which is so misted with his own breath it’s a wonder he can still see through it.

‘So I’ve heard,’ remarks Douglas coolly. He strolls across the room to join them with every outward appearance of perfect indifference and stands on tip-toes to peer over his brothers’ heads. ‘I still can’t _see_ – oh!’

‘Look, there’s another one!’ Martin points excitedly. Douglas is on the verge of rolling his eyes at the fact that if he is able to pick out _individual snowflakes_ to comment on, then there is hardly anything to be getting worked up about – but doing so would break his gaze, and he is following the flake’s progress as closely as Martin. It settles on the very edge of the windowsill and all three brothers, crowded shoulder-to-shoulder on the other side of the glass, hold their breath as they wait for it to melt. Except it doesn’t, and a few seconds later another – larger this time – joins it. And then another, and another, until they are coming down too quickly to count and even Douglas’s face is set in an expression of rapt attention that perfectly matches his brothers’.

‘IT’S SNOWING!’ Arthur shouts again suddenly, jumping back from the window to race towards the kitchen and almost knocking both Douglas and Martin flying in the process. ‘Herc, it’s snowing, it’s snowing!’

‘I can hear!’ Herc’s laughing voice drifts into the room slightly ahead of the man himself, and Arthur almost collides with his knees in his excitement but manages to pull himself up short just in time.

‘Can we make a snowman?’ Arthur asks, tugging at Herc’s apron and peering upwards beseechingly, ‘ _Please_ can we make a snowman?’

‘I don’t think there’s quite enough snow for that just yet,’ Herc smiles, and whether by accident or design his gaze falls to Douglas, who avoids it. ‘Anyway, it’s too dark out now. We’ll have to wait and see what it’s like in the morning.’

‘Do you think we’ll get a Snow Day?’ asks Martin, half eager, half apprehensive.

‘I don’t know, but if it snows enough I’m sure there’ll be plenty left when you get home even if there isn’t,’ Herc takes Arthur’s hand absently and moves with him towards the window. ‘It looks like it’s settling, though, doesn’t it?’ He is frowning, and Martin is the first to realise why – or at least the first to comment on it. Douglas has gone very quiet.

‘Why – oh! Is your flight going to get cancelled?’

‘Possibly,’ says Herc, ‘probably, if it keeps this up.’ For the snow is falling thick and fast now, great fat flakes that are quickly covering every available surface and turning the opposite row of houses into indistinct blurs.

‘Do you think it _will_ stay long?’

‘He doesn’t control the weather Martin, he doesn’t know,’ snaps Douglas irritably. In the rush of his brothers’ excitement he has returned to watching the snow from the window, and only turns around to deliver this reprimand.

‘Sorry,’ Martin hangs his head apologetically, directing the word towards Herc but the feeling towards Douglas. He doesn’t know what is wrong with his brother recently, but with the part of him that isn’t merely annoyed and confused by the situation is worried, and not a little guilty. He glances between Herc’s face and Douglas’s back, biting his lip, then takes a deep breath and strides with all the confidence he can muster away from Herc and towards Douglas. ‘What do _you_ think?’ he asks. His voice is quiet and confidential, as though actively trying to block out anyone else from the conversation. Douglas turns his head slightly and his frown fades a little when he catches sight of Martin’s determinedly sincere expression.

‘The Nativity announcements are tomorrow aren’t they?’ he asks. Martin nods solemnly. Douglas thinks carefully before replying, deliberately avoiding the first two or three responses that occur to him, all of which are scathing and unfair. ‘They won’t change their minds even if they have to wait a day before telling you, you know.’

‘Are you sure?’ Martin picks at a thread on his jumper, no longer looking at either Douglas or the snow.

‘Yes,’ replies Douglas with certainty. ‘If you’ve got it, you’ve got it, no matter when they announce it.’

‘Do you _really_ think I probably haven’t, though?’

The honest answer is yes, even if only going by Martin’s usual trend of luck. Douglas hesitates before replying.

‘I don’t know,’ he says eventually. ‘You might have got another part, though, even if you didn’t get Gabriel.’

‘But I _really_ want to be Gabriel. He’s got _wings_.’

Douglas sighs. Actively trying not to snap at his brother only seems to increase the urge to do it, and he really doesn’t want to argue right now. For once, he just doesn’t have the energy for it.

‘Well, weren’t you making your own costume at the weekend? You’ll still have that, even if you’re not cast as Gabriel. You and Arthur can make your own Nativity for Mum or something.’

‘Do you think she’d let me?’ Martin’s face lights up with hope, and Douglas cringes inwardly at the thought of his mother’s reaction if he makes this promise for her.

‘Maybe,’ he says carefully.

‘Brilliant!’ Martin grins and throws his arms around Douglas, who rolls his eyes but allows it and even pats his brother on the back a little.

‘Don’t tell me you’re going to start using that word to describe everything too.’

‘I won’t, I promise,’ Martin replies quickly, eager to say anything to stay in Douglas’s good books for now. He has just stepped back and opened his mouth to say something else when Arthur’s loud voice interrupts once more, accompanied by the sound of running feet. He has apparently retreated to the kitchen with Herc while they have been having this conversation and still has a dab of cookie dough on the end of his nose.

‘MUM’S HOME!’ he announces as he barrels past them towards the front door, which opens mercifully just before he reaches it. He barely has time to slow down before throwing his arms around their mother’s legs in a brief, fierce hug that almost knocks her over with its force. Douglas and Martin had both apparently missed the sound of her car pulling up in the drive.

‘Arthur!’ she exclaims, steadying herself with a hand on the wall as Martin and Douglas peer around the living room door and grin sheepishly in welcome. ‘What are you doing? You nearly had us both over then! Go on; inside, all of you.’ Her tone is sharp and commanding; none of them hesitate before obeying, although they can all tell that she is tired but not truly annoyed and so have no real fear of being scolded. ‘What on earth’s got you all so worked up?’ she demands, following them back through and unbuttoning her coat as she does.

‘It’s snowing!’ Arthur responds promptly.

‘Is it?’ Carolyn asks, raising her eyebrows. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

‘It is, look –’

‘Yes, Arthur, I was – never mind. What have you got on your face?’ She returns briefly to the hall to hang up her coat and handbag and then raises her eyebrows expectantly as she waits for an explanation. Arthur frowns and then brings up a hand to check.

‘Oh! Herc’s making cookies!’

‘Is he now?’

‘Arthur was helping,’ Herc calls. There is the sound of the oven door closing and then Herc pokes his head around the kitchen door. ‘He hasn’t actually eaten any.’ He winks, quite obviously, at Arthur as he speaks. Carolyn rolls her eyes.

‘On your own head be it,’ she warns, collapsing with a sigh into an armchair and closing her eyes.

‘Long day?’ Herc asks, untying his apron and tossing it vaguely onto the countertop by the kitchen door. Carolyn opens her eyes just enough to glare at him. He picks it up again and hangs it on the hook on the back of the door. Douglas barely manages to conceal his smirk, and could swear that he sees the faintest flicker of one on his mother’s face directed at him before she settles back and closes her eyes again.

‘Just a bit,’ she replies as though there has been no pause, her tired voice dripping with sarcasm. Wearily she permits Arthur to clamber onto her lap and settle there like nothing so much as a contented cat, but she firmly pushes his hand away when he tries to play with her necklace.

Douglas bites his lip, then slips quietly into the kitchen, half listening to his mother’s explanation of a day spent dealing with apparently some of the worst customers she has ever encountered (which is saying something), half absorbed in his own thoughts. He doesn’t notice the meaningful glance she exchanges with Herc behind his back, and neither does Arthur. Martin does, but he doesn’t understand it.

Douglas moves about the kitchen silently, hesitating when he goes to select a mug. He almost takes two – he actually has Herc’s in his hand and is on the point of carrying it over to the kettle – but then decides against it, feeling a faint twinge of vindictive satisfaction as he does. His mother’s he fills with coffee, which he then dutifully carries back through to her without a word. She fails entirely at hiding her surprise, although her frown is more of concern than confusion.

‘What’s this for?’ she asks, accepting the mug without looking at it; her eyes are fixed on Douglas’s face. Douglas shrugs. ‘I take it this is an apology for something none of us actually know about yet?’

‘It’s just a coffee,’ replies Douglas, sitting down heavily in the chair by the window – the very furthest he can get from the others without leaving the room altogether. ‘I can take it back if you don’t want it.’ He draws his knees up and watches her sullenly over the top of them.

‘No, no, it just makes me nervous when you start doing nice things unprompted,’ Carolyn teases, trying for a smile and falling just short when there is no answering expression on Douglas’s face. ‘Thank you.’

Douglas shrugs again and turns back to the window.

This time Carolyn doesn’t even try to hide her frown as she turns to face Herc.

‘ _What_ –?’ she mouths, indicating her eldest son with a jerk of her head. Herc opens his mouth, glances between Douglas, Arthur, and Martin (the former two are not paying the slightest attention; the latter is following the exchange avidly), and shakes his head.

‘ _Later_ ,’ he mouths back.

It is only with great reluctance that Carolyn relents, and she continues to watch Douglas closely for the rest of the evening. He has been worryingly prone to this sort of thing recently, withdrawing more and more into himself and only emerging to snap at unsuspecting bystanders with ever-increasing cruelty. Then he quietly, resentfully and without being asked will perform some task or kindness that would usually constitute an apology except that it is rarely directed towards the injured party – and then the cycle begins again. She has never seen him like this; not when his father left or at any of the subsequent anniversaries, nor likewise for Gordon; not after Martin’s birth or Arthur’s, not even after Herc moved in or when they announced their engagement.

It is time they got to the bottom of this.

00000

Douglas spends most of the rest of the evening in silence. He finishes his homework and eats his dinner, and afterwards accepts one of Herc’s cookies with a grudging ‘thank you’ only because not to do so would cause more bother than it is worth. Later, he agrees to help Martin put the finishing touches onto his homemade angel costume; somehow he finds the task simultaneously irksome and calming. Martin is conscious the entire time of how fragile the current peace is and remains tense and wary, just waiting for his brother’s next outburst of temper. When Carolyn eventually sends them one by one off to bed, it is almost a relief.

Douglas puts on his pyjamas almost mechanically, his minds still occupied elsewhere. He is determined to break out of this mood, because he hates it, and also determined to stay in it as long as possible out of sheer spite. He can’t decide whether he is more angry (with himself, with Herc, with his mother – any, all, it doesn’t matter) or afraid. It is easier to be angry, though, so he embraces that.

He rips the quilt back with unnecessary force and practically throws himself into bed, glaring upwards in the darkness, silently fuming. He doubts he will get to sleep tonight, but he is exhausted. He is _confused_. He – _hates_ – this.

And suddenly, as has been happening more and more recently, he doesn’t have the energy to be angry, and all he wants to do is hide away and sleep, or better still crawl into his mother’s arms and have her tell him exactly what to do to make everything alright again.

He _could_. He could ask for help.

Except he won’t. He _can’t_.

His eyes sting with tears of frustration, but he blinks them back. When he hears the faint tap at the door, he ignores it, and prays that his mother – it can only be his mother – will assume he is already asleep.

He has no such luck.

‘Douglas?’ her quiet voice is accompanied by the _click_ of the door opening. A slim bar of light from the landing slants across the room, until Carolyn flicks the switch of his bedroom light and Douglas has to squint against the glare.

‘What do you want?’ he asks bluntly, not turning his head but not bothering to close his eyes and pretend to sleep. He knows she wouldn’t fall for it, now that she’s got this far.

‘To find out what’s put you in this awful mood, that’s what,’ Carolyn replies tersely, and instantly chastises herself. Sometimes it is difficult with Douglas, even for her, to remember that she is speaking to a twelve year old; a child with nowhere near enough life experience to justify his permanently world-weary persona.

‘I’m not in an awful mood.’

‘I beg to differ,’ Carolyn argues, more gently this time. She moves forward to perch on the edge of his bed, but he still doesn’t look at her. She frowns, studying his too-serious face, and hopes she is imagining the shining wetness of his eyes. (She knows she is not.)

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re not fine. You haven’t been fine for weeks.’ With a great effort of will, Carolyn tamps down on her irritation, born of concern, and forces her voice into something she hopes sounds encouraging. She has never been a natural comforter, and even after over a decade of motherhood it only comes to her with difficulty. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong? I might be able to help.’

‘There’s nothing _wrong_ ,’ Douglas insists, folding his arms over the top of the quilt.

‘Then why did you shout at Martin?’

‘For God’s sake –’

‘Douglas –’

‘I didn’t shout at him!’ He unfolds his arms now, and slams his hands by his sides, turning to glare at Carolyn but not sitting up.

‘I’ve heard differently.’

‘From who? Herc?’ Carolyn opens her mouth to reply, but Douglas continues before she can get a word out. ‘I _didn’t shout at him_. I _shouted_ , but it wasn’t _at_ anyone, I just – I’m fine. Okay? I’m sorry I shouted. Can I go to sleep now?’

‘People don’t tend to shout at nothing when they’re fine,’ says Carolyn. Douglas is avoiding her eye again, staring at the wall, and she leans around to try and hold his attention. ‘Please, Douglas. I know something’s bothering you. All I’m trying to do is help, but I can’t do that unless you tell me what’s wrong.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Do I take it you’re just being contrary for the sake of it, then?’ Carolyn asks, hoping to spark some argumentative portion of her son (and God knows there are enough of those) into correcting her.

‘Go ahead.’ Douglas rolls his eyes and Carolyn has to take a deep breath to keep her temper in check.

‘Is it about Herc?’ she asks matter-of-factly.

‘Why does everything have to be about _Herc_?’ Douglas spits the name out as though it leaves a foul taste in his mouth.

‘If you’re worried about the wedding –’

‘I don’t _care_ about your stupid wedding!’ Douglas bursts out furiously. ‘I wish everyone would just stop talking about it and _leave me alone_!’ He throws himself over onto his side, facing towards the wall with his back to Carolyn, breathing hard through his nose and obviously making a supreme effort not to start shouting again.

Carolyn has to almost literally bite her tongue to prevent herself replying instinctively to his declaration, and in that split second a crushing wave of realisation hits her; heart-wrenching, guilt-ridden realisation that leaves her momentarily gaping and speechless. Because what she very nearly just said was ‘one day you’re going to say that to someone and they’re going to listen to you.’ And only now – she curses herself for it – only now does she realise that _that is exactly what he’s afraid of_.

The hot rush of fury towards both her ex-husbands is almost entirely overwhelmed by her own guilt as she struggles for a reply. A thousand reassurances offer themselves to her, a thousand promises she could make that Douglas will dismiss before she has even finished voicing them. At best he would do likewise with a scolding; at worst, he would take it far too much to heart. There is nothing she can say. For possibly the first time in his entire life, there is nothing she can say to make this better, and the pain of that revelation is more than she ever would have thought it could be.

‘I’m fine, Mum, really,’ says Douglas eventually, and Carolyn is startled to realise that neither of them have spoken for several minutes. His voice is dull and quiet now, as though he simply doesn’t have the energy to be angry anymore. He is still facing away from her.

‘Douglas –’

‘I’m just tired.’

‘If you want to talk –’she lays a hand gently on his shoulder and is shrugged off almost immediately.

‘I don’t,’ Douglas interrupts, a touch of irritation creeping back into his tone. ‘Thank you, though,’ he adds, perhaps not entirely sincerely. ‘Just… I’m tired. I’m going to go to sleep now.’

Carolyn hesitates, but she can’t see any benefit in forcing the matter if all it does is make things worse. Especially not now she has caught a glimpse of the cause of his distress, and is even more at a loss than ever over what to do about it.

‘Okay,’ she relents with great reluctance, getting up slowly. ‘But if you _do_ –’

‘I know where to find you,’ Douglas agrees. Carolyn nods and smiles sadly as she backs out of the room and pulls the door gently closed behind her. She heaves a deep sigh the moment she hears it click and her entire posture slumps with exhaustion. She is utterly at sea, for the first time in a very long time completely without an idea of how best to handle the situation.

If it were a matter of Douglas – of any of her sons – genuinely disliking Hercules, or genuinely objecting to the wedding – if her getting married again was in itself causing any of them this much distress, she would never dream of going through with it. A part of her wishes that it were so simple, because if she could solve everything by just calling off her engagement – she would do it. She loves Herc, but she would do it in an instant, for her sons. The problem is that it isn’t Herc _staying_ that is the issue, it’s the fear of him _leaving_ – or perhaps, she thinks, with a deepening sadness, it’s the fear of anyone – the fear of _her_ – leaving. And there is nothing she can do about that except wait, and hope that the more time passes without such a thing happening, the more they (especially Douglas) will come to realise that it _won’t_. Except how long will that take?

By the time she has returned to the living room, where Herc is waiting on the sofa with a hot chocolate and a sympathetic smile, Carolyn is more tired than she remembers being for years.

‘No luck?’ he asks as she sinks into the cushions next to him and rests her head against his shoulder, something she would never normally do without at least a sarcastic comment to accompany it.

‘Too much,’ she replies shortly, and then with a great sigh she pulls herself upright again, shifting so that they are side by side on the sofa but not touching. ‘He’s still convinced you’re going to leave. He’s terrified of it.’

‘He –’

‘He didn’t say as much. But that’s what’s wrong.’

‘I believe you,’ Herc replies, a small frown of concern creasing his brow. He sips his own hot chocolate, his expression thoughtful. ‘Why now, though? He’s seemed to be getting so much better about it, until the last few weeks.’

Carolyn spreads her hands in a gesture of rare helplessness. ‘Search me,’ she says. She sips her hot chocolate but her expression twists in distaste and she sets it aside.

‘Do you think I should give him the X-Box early?’

Carolyn hesitates before replying.

‘No,’ she says eventually. ‘It won’t make a difference if he gets it now or in three weeks’ time, it’s not going to change anything overnight.’

‘That was never the point,’ Herc replies, a little testily. ‘It might be a start, that’s all, which is better than nothing. I would never have agreed to it otherwise. Maybe it’ll show him I haven’t forgotten –’

‘Which it will do just as well in three weeks’ time. In any case if you give him it now you’ll only make Arthur and Martin jealous, and you know what he’s like anyway, he’ll probably argue you haven’t kept to the deal if you do it early.’ Carolyn rubs her forehead in agitation, closing her eyes briefly and shaking her head. ‘I’m not being dismissive,’ she says after a pause, her voice irritable but unusually pacifying. ‘I was just thinking more long-term, that’s all. We need to do something about this. I don’t know how it’s got this far –’

‘It’s not your fault –’ Herc reaches out to lay a calming hand on Carolyn’s elbow.

‘I _know_ that,’ Carolyn snaps, tugging her arm away. ‘It’s every other person who’s ever walked out on him –’

‘I’m not going to do that, Carolyn,’ says Herc in a low voice. He can tell, even if she can’t – or won’t admit to it anyway – how much of her son’s fears she actually shares. ‘You know I won’t do that.’

‘I know.’

‘We’ll think of something,’ Herc promises. This time when he reaches out Carolyn goes willingly. She is still tense, but she leans against her fiancé’s side and permits him to wrap an arm around her shoulders, and even closes her eyes, although she is still frowning. ‘We’ll work it out,’ he repeats soothingly, and Carolyn is comforted, if nothing else, by his use of the plural. She wishes she had his confidence in a solution, but at least she will not have to tackle the problem alone. And perhaps that is the whole point.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the curiosity of the wonderful [Linguini](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini), there are now several not-quite ficlets/snippets of extra information about this series on tumblr...
> 
> [Appropos of nothing, but how do calendar-verse!Douglas, Martin, and Arthur feel about the winter olympics?](http://elvendorkinfinity.tumblr.com/post/77846067847/appropos-of-nothing-but-how-do-calendar-verse-douglas)
> 
> [What is Carolyn's greatest wish for each of her boys?](http://elvendorkinfinity.tumblr.com/post/78537689061/i-am-definitely-not-the-only-one-who-likes-it)
> 
> [How to the Calendar boys celebrate Carolyn's birthday? Their own?](http://elvendorkinfinity.tumblr.com/post/79768349193/how-to-the-calendar-boys-celebrate-carolyns-birthday)
> 
> [What do the calendar boys do when they're sad/upset?](http://elvendorkinfinity.tumblr.com/post/82080081980/what-do-the-calendar-boys-do-when-theyre-sad-upset)
> 
>  
> 
> Do feel free to ask your own questions if you have them, and thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.


	2. Nativity!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is really quite a lot of snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you, as always, to my beta [prettybirdy979](http://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/pseuds/prettybirdy979). 
> 
> Several Sherlock characters make appearances in this chapter because they are already established within the series (see November) but I have not listed it as a crossover because their roles are so minor. (As ever, if you spot a potential non-CP/non-Sherlock reference... that was also probably deliberate, but again it is not a proper crossover.)

Douglas does not sleep well that night. He hardly sleeps at all, in fact. Instead he only dozes fitfully and dreams of things he does not remember when he wakes, but which leave his head feeling thick and heavy and his chest sort of… hollow.

Sometime around eight in the morning, when he has finally had his eyes closed for almost an entire hour, he registers his mother poking her head into the room to tell him there will be no school today. He grunts in acknowledgement, turns over, and tries to go back to sleep.

Half an hour later he drags himself out of bed with enormous reluctance and slowly dresses himself with his eyes still half closed. He is exhausted but he knows he will not get any more rest today.

His mother is in the dining room when he enters it, sitting at the table with a cup of rapidly cooling tea at her elbow and a scattered mess of paperwork in front of her. Herc is nowhere to be seen.

‘Good morning,’ she greets him apparently carelessly, but Douglas catches the sharp, appraising look in her eyes. Her words are somewhere between a question and a half-hearted censure for his late rising.

‘Morning,’ Douglas offers, none too brightly. He tries and fails to catch a proper glimpse of the paperwork as he passes towards the kitchen.

‘Your brothers are in the garden,’ Carolyn calls through as he helps himself to cereal. It occurs to Douglas only vaguely that of course, if there is no school today it must be because of the snow. He wonders why he hadn’t noticed it sooner, and even more why the idea of his brothers being out in it before him ( _without_ him?) causes a twinge of discomfort in his chest. By the time he carries his full bowl back to the dining room Carolyn has cleared the table of papers and is tucking them neatly away into a navy blue folder. She raises her eyebrows when she sees Douglas watching, and he shrugs, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth almost against his will.

‘Worth a try,’ he says.

‘Hmm,’ Carolyn responds, though with less than her usual disapproval. She opens her mouth as though to say something else, then appears to think better of it. She frowns as she watches her eldest son eat.

‘I’m fine, Mum,’ Douglas rolls his eyes. It is almost convincing.

‘Of course you are,’ Carolyn replies, though she at least sounds sarcastic rather than condescending, so Douglas will not begrudge her the comment _too_ badly.

Half a dozen responses pile up behind Douglas’s lips and he even parts them as though to speak, but in the end he merely takes a mouthful of cornflakes and remains silent. If anything this worries Carolyn even more, and he knows it does, but he isn’t sure anything he could say would improve matters anyway. A strange calm has settled over him, after the fury that had pulsed through him yesterday, and the knowledge which had been humiliating the night before – that his mother _knows_ something, has possibly even guessed the source of his discomfort – is now further burdened with… guilt.

He isn’t _trying_ to worry her, though a small part of him takes a savage pleasure in it.

(Let her worry; let her see his anger, his… _hurt_ ; let _someone_ feel some small measure of his own confusion.)

(It’s not her fault, it’s not her fault, it’s not even _Herc’s_ fault, he doesn’t know whose fault it is, it’s his father’s fault, it’s no one’s fault, it’s _his own_ fault.)

Causing her pain by inaction is better than deliberately burdening her with his fears, though, surely? If talking to her, as she wants him to, will only further both her worry and his embarrassment, what benefit is there? What possible purpose?

Oh, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t _know_ why he is so angry, why he wants to lash out at everyone and everything and at the same time apologise for every tiny slight. He doesn’t understand how he can both want so badly to be left alone and still fear such a thing down to his very core.

‘Douglas…’ Carolyn begins, seeing the play of carefully guarded emotions across her son’s face, reading from him what probably no one else would be able to and not knowing, never knowing, how to respond.

‘I’m _fine_ ,’ Douglas insists automatically. He even hitches a very nearly convincing grin onto his face; a parody of his usual mischief, and forcibly pushes away his increasingly circular thoughts. He is _not_ going to do this. He is _not_ going to let them – whoever _they_ are, be they a real person or simply his own anthropomorphised concerns – win. _He_ is going to win. He does not know any other state of being.

He finishes his breakfast quickly. He can tell his mother is only silent because she is formulating her next plan of attack, so the moment his bowl is left in the sink he announces that he is going to join his brothers in the garden. She seems disproportionately relieved even as she chivvies him along with a sharp reminder about wrapping up warmly, her usual brisk self once more.

The sight that greets him as he steps out of the back door into their snow-blanketed garden brings a genuine smile to his lips. Well. More of a smirk, really, but it feels natural and right and injects into him some of his old humour.

He only has a split second to appreciate the sight of his two younger brothers struggling with all their might to roll along a snowball almost as big as Martin before they spy him and rush over in a flurry of scuffed snow and flapping scarves.

‘Douglas!’ Martin exclaims, grabbing his left arm while Arthur does the same on his right. ‘We need your help, we can’t get it to move and it’s in the wrong place and we’re trying to make a snowman –’

Douglas rolls his eyes and struggles half-heartedly to hide his grin. The obvious relief, the _joy_ on his brothers’ faces when they caught sight of him, had sent a frisson of warmth through him that is entirely out of proportion to the situation.

Within a few minutes of the younger boys enlisting Douglas’s help their formerly overlarge and misshapen snowball is almost perfectly smooth and round, and only slightly smaller as a result. Douglas has managed to convince his brothers that it needn’t be moved from where it is, and doing so would only ruin all their hard work anyway. Both Martin and Arthur look at it with something approaching awe, which sets off such a spark of pride in Douglas that he cannot help but grin.

‘Now the rest!’ Martin exclaims eagerly, after the three of them have stood back and admired their handiwork. ‘How do we do the rest?’

‘Right, Arthur, you make the head. That’s the smallest part,’ Douglas instructs briskly. ‘Make it… about this big,’ he holds his hands around a foot apart to demonstrate. Arthur immediately crouches down and scoops up a handful of snow, which he quickly begins patting into shape. ‘I’ll make the body. Martin, you go get something for buttons and its face.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know, like rocks or something, or those shells from Cornwall last year – and ask Mum for a carrot for its nose, and some sticks for arms – and a broom!’

‘Rocks, shells, carrot, sticks, and broom,’ Martin recites dutifully. When Douglas nods his approval the younger boy returns the gesture and darts, grinning, back inside the house in search of his requested treasure. Douglas glances at Arthur, rolls his eyes at the somewhat sloppy but enthusiastic effort his brother is making, and sets about his own self-appointed task.

Despite Douglas’s snowball being twice the size of Arthur’s, he still finishes first by a long way. He is tempted to take over from Arthur but forces himself to stay out of the way until his brother proudly stands up and announces his creation complete. Douglas then smiles encouragingly and pokes only the smallest amount of fun as he advises on improvements. The way he sees it, it is his right and duty as an older brother to tease his siblings whenever an appropriate opportunity presents itself, but equally it is his right and duty to know when _not_ to tease. Right now is one of those times, although whether for his own sake or Arthur’s he isn’t sure. He is not in the mood for an argument, and he is well aware that at least a part of his brothers’ motivation in asking for his help was for _him_. (Martin and Arthur know better than anyone – except possibly their mother – that perhaps the best way to cheer Douglas up is simply to make him feel useful.) The least he can do is repay them in kind.

‘There, that’s it,’ he says, fighting the urge to take the snowball from Arthur and alter it himself. ‘Just knock that bit off there – not that much! It’s okay; look, you can put a bit more on… Now roll it around a bit more… There! You’ve done it, Arthur!’ (The fact that the snowball in question has been almost entirely rebuilt since Douglas intervened is beside the point. And anyway, almost all of the actual physical work _has_ been Arthur’s – Douglas has simply been advising.)

‘I have?’ Arthur sounds doubtful.

‘Of course! It’s brilliant,’ Douglas enthuses, choosing his adjective very deliberately. It’s worth the slight exaggeration to see the look of absolute pride and joy on Arthur’s face.

‘Thank you Douglas!’ Arthur exclaims, beaming and twisting where he sits on the ground to throw his arms around his older brother, almost knocking Douglas backwards into the snow.

‘Alright, alright, you’re welcome!’ Douglas pushes back and struggles to remove Arthur’s arms from around his neck, but he is laughing. ‘You’re going to fall on it if you’re not careful!’

‘Can we put it on now? Please, can we?’

‘Not yet,’ says Douglas, standing and brushing snow from his trousers (which are already cold and wet enough that it makes little difference). ‘We need to do the body first and we need Martin for that.’

As if on cue Martin comes rushing, breathless, from around the side of the house with an armful of sticks, which he promptly dumps on the ground beside the half-constructed snowman. Still panting from his rush, he plunges both hands into his coat pockets and pulls out fistfuls of rocks and several large shells, then twists around to try and reach into his hood. Raising his eyebrows, Douglas reaches in for him – and pulls out a carrot.

‘It didn’t fit in my pocket,’ explains Martin.

‘I can see that,’ says Douglas, reluctantly impressed with Martin’s achievement. ‘What about the broom?’

‘Mum says we can use the one in the shed.’

Douglas wracks his brains to try and think of anything else Martin might have forgotten, but comes up empty.

‘Let’s get started then,’ he says brightly, now feeling thoroughly invested in their project and revelling in the act of giving out advice – being _wanted_ for advice.

Between them, he and Martin manage to wrestle the body of the snowman on top of the large base with minimal damage to either themselves or the snowballs. The head, being slightly higher than Douglas’s own, is a little more difficult, but it is more or less still in shape once in place and only requires minor repairs. Douglas lifts Arthur up and allows him to pat it back to near its previous impressive state. As soon as he is down again, the youngest boy runs straight for the pile of rocks and shells provided by Martin.

‘What now?’ he asks eagerly, quickly grabbing the biggest shell and holding it out. It is fan shaped and a dirty cream colour, with a sharp chip near one edge. Douglas eyes the stash speculatively. None of the other shells are quite the same size as this one, which is almost as large as Douglas’s hand, but there are several similar looking smaller ones, all slightly the worse for wear, and two or three dull grey cone-shaped limpets which would fit comfortably in his palm. He crouches down himself to rummage amongst the rocks, noticing as he does so that several new flakes of snow are beginning to fall. Martin stands back and chews his lip nervously, hoping his findings are deemed adequate.

At long last, Douglas brings up a handful of small blackish pebbles and two limpets. He has, once again, the determined spark of a plan in action twinkling in his dark eyes.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘These are for the eyes,’ he holds out the limpets. ‘If Arthur and I give you a boost do you think you can manage it?’ Martin nods quickly. ‘The rocks are for the mouth, and the carrot is for the nose. Then Arthur can do the buttons.’

It is a compromise, really, and Douglas has chosen it with extreme care. Douglas is the most dexterous and skilled, and would be able to add the face most reliably. He is much too heavy for his brothers to manage to lift, though, and anyway it is only fair that they each get a turn at doing _something_. Arthur is the lightest, but he is over-enthusiastic and somewhat clumsy as a result; he is more liable to make mistakes and possibly to fall. Martin is a stickler for detail, if not as skilled as Douglas, and small enough that between them Douglas and Arthur should be able to manage his weight. (If it occurs to Douglas that he probably putting too _much_ thought into this, he gives no sign of it.)

‘Can I choose what to use for them?’ Arthur asks tentatively. Douglas hesitates for a split second, half wanting to make the selection himself because he knows he would do it better, but his resolve melts at the sight of his brother’s face.

‘Of course,’ he allows.

‘Brilliant!’ Arthur immediately sets about sorting the remaining supplies, but Douglas interrupts before he gets very far.

‘ _After_ we help Martin with the face, okay?’

‘I love helping!’ Arthur exclaims, jumping back up just as readily and waiting for instructions. ‘What do I do?’

‘Here, make a step with your hands like this…’ Douglas demonstrates. He has to correct Arthur several times before he is confident enough to allow Martin to put any weight on him. It takes a further two attempts before Arthur and Douglas are supporting a foot each and slowly – _very_ slowly – lifting him up. Luckily they don’t have to raise him too far, and anyway there is still a fairly thick covering of snow on the ground – enough to break his fall, should he have one.

He doesn’t. The facial construction goes off without a hitch, and after that it is only a matter of a few minutes before the buttons are done. They are mismatched and set in a crooked line, but it actually… sort of works, Douglas has to admit. They are just setting about finding the right sticks for the arms when Martin suddenly grabs for something that Douglas can’t see, half hidden in the freshly falling snow.

‘It looks like a zipper!’ Martin exclaims, holding up an abandoned mussel shell with fascination. ‘We could use it for the front!’

‘But it’s got buttons,’ Douglas protests, even as Arthur grabs the shell and proclaims it ‘brilliant’. ‘Why would it need a zipper?’

‘Maybe… maybe it’s got both,’ Martin argues. ‘It could have both. Or – or the other shells could be its zip. Can we Douglas? _Please_?’

‘Oh, all right,’ Douglas relents. ‘But help me with the sticks first.’

00000

The three boys are so absorbed in their activities that none of them bother to glance around at the house. Specifically, none of them turn towards the patio door, looking out onto the garden from the dining room. None of them see Carolyn and Herc, side by side, watching them play with something possibly like pride, and something definitely like love, in their eyes.

00000

Sticks selected and in place, “zipper” pressed into the snow just above the crooked line of shells running up the snowman’s front, and broom propped unsteadily against its side, the boys’ project is complete.

Well, _almost_ complete. Something is missing. Douglas chews his lip in thought, then abruptly begins unwinding his scarf with one hand and plucking Martin’s hat off with the other. Ignoring his brother’s protests, both scarf and hat are quickly set upon the snowman (he has to jump to manage the hat, which lands lopsided, but it seems fitting that way).

‘There,’ Douglas announces, stepping back and rolling his eyes at Martin’s scowl. ‘ _Now_ it’s finished.’

‘My head’s cold,’ Martin complains.

‘So’s my neck, but you don’t hear me complaining.’

‘It was _your_ scarf. I didn’t say you could take my hat.’

‘It suits him better,’ Douglas teases, jerking his towards the snowman.

‘ _Douglas_!’

‘What? It’s the truth.’ He pauses, looking thoughtful. ‘Here, if it’s that much of a problem, you can have a new hat.’ Before Martin can even process his words Douglas bends down, scoops up a handful of trampled snow, and smacks it down on top of his brother’s curls.

‘DOUGLAS!’ Martin shrieks, shaking off the snow furiously and ducking, too late, out of the way. Ice cold trickles of water run down his back and he brushes hair and snow from his eyes, looking up to see Douglas already on the opposite side of the garden with another handful of snow ready to launch. He is grinning wickedly.

‘Problem?’ Douglas asks nonchalantly, rolling the snowball between his hands, eyes glinting with mischief.

‘ _Yes_!’ Martin shouts, although most of his anger has quickly evaporated. Now he is just indignant. And wet. And cold. And planning on revenge.

‘What are you going to do about it?’ Douglas challenges, knowing exactly what Martin is going to do about it, and preparing to dart out of the way just in time. Sure enough Martin quickly and clumsily gathers up his own ammunition and, without taking time to think or aim properly, launches it at his brother. It hits the fence with a – to Douglas – satisfying _thud_.

Douglas responds with his own – much more accurate – throw, and is rewarded by another wordless exclamation of (now rather half-hearted) annoyance from Martin. Martin pitches himself (too late) to the floor, rolls (Douglas isn’t sure whether this is deliberate or not) and makes his next throw from his knees. This time he catches Douglas, but only barely; the hastily constructed snowball breaks apart in a puff of harmless flakes as it grazes the side of Douglas’s hip, showering Arthur in the frosty shrapnel.

Arthur, laughing with delight, uses both hands to scoop up his own weapon and projects it towards Martin more by ineffectually pushing his arms forward as though to open a door and splaying his hands out than by actually throwing it. Martin is hit in the face by the very edge of the resultant cloud and, now grinning, tosses another snowball at his attacker – he catches Arthur in the shoulder at the same time as Douglas catches _him_ in his outstretched arm.

Within minutes even those areas of the garden that had remained mercifully untouched by building the snowman are scuffed and churned by running feet and frantically scooping hands. All three boys are breathless, cold, and splattered with snow. Martin has it clinging in clumps to his hair; the others have it speckling their woollen hats. Arthur’s scarf is trailing so low he might soon trip over it; it is now only hooked over one shoulder rather than wrapped around his neck. Douglas’s coat is askew and his cheeks are bright pink with exertion and cold. The snowman, so carefully crafted, is still standing but now marked all across its torso with fist-sized lumps and craters. One of the arms has been knocked forward, though it remains attached (just).

At long last, they come to a stalemate. All three are poised to attack; Douglas stands in the back corner opposite the shed, one arm raised ready to throw, legs bent and set apart prepared to jump or run as necessary. Martin, similarly positioned, is diagonally opposite, close to the patio door (Carolyn and Herc have since moved to a less conspicuous spot, though they still have half an eye on the boys). Arthur makes the final corner of the triangle, though much closer to the centre of the garden, closest to the snowman. Both his hands are full and his hat has slipped down so that he can only see clearly out of his right eye. All three chests are heaving with the effort to catch their breath. Their beaming faces show by turns determination, excitement, and glittering exhilaration.

‘Surrender?’ Douglas pants after several seconds of silence.

‘Never,’ replies Martin with surprising conviction.

‘Last chance to give up,’ Douglas offers, glancing between his brothers and revelling in the ache of the cold air in his chest and throat, the sting of it in his eyes and on his cheeks; loving the obvious joy on his brothers’ faces, knowing it is reflected on his own and not caring.

‘You give up,’ Arthur retorts, in what he evidently hopes is a threatening tone.

‘Not likely,’ Douglas shakes his head. ‘Sure you won’t call a truce?’

‘I’m not falling for that,’ Martin argues, and Douglas shrugs as though it is of no consequence.

‘Arthur?’ He glances towards the youngest and raises his eyebrows. He almost has his breath back. ‘Care to make an alliance?’

‘What’s an al – an _alliance_?’ Arthur enunciates extremely carefully and looks incredibly proud of himself for managing it.

‘Arthur, don’t –!’ Martin tries.

‘It means we team up.’

‘Arthur!’

‘Oh!’ Arthur’s face clears and his tense pose relaxes slightly, ‘I like teams.’

‘Well then? What do you say?’ He glances pointedly towards Martin, who isn’t sure which direction would be least dangerous to run in right now. ‘Shall we?’ And before Arthur can reply, Douglas has dropped his snowball and is racing across the garden towards Martin. Arthur is slower but closer, and quickly cottons on. Martin hasn’t got a chance to think or anywhere to move before they both barrel into him and knock him backwards into the snow, winding him badly but not hurting him. Douglas immediately pulls back and begins to tickle him.

‘Douglas, get off!’ Martin calls desperately through his reluctant laughter. ‘Douglas – Arthur stop! Stop it!’

‘That’s what you get for challenging me!’ Douglas crows gleefully, not relenting in his attack and blatantly egging Arthur on.

‘You started it!’

‘I did not!’

‘Yes you did! You stole my hat! _And_ you threw snow at my head!’

‘I didn’t _throw_ it at your head,’ Douglas argues, ‘I just _put_ it there. And I _needed_ the hat. I donated my scarf!’

‘You didn’t ask!’ Martin complains. Then, ‘ _Stop it, that tickles_!’

‘That’s the point!’

‘Arthur, please,’ Martin tries appealing to his younger brother, ‘Help!’

If there is one thing in the world that Arthur cannot resist, it is a request for help. In moments he and Martin have turned on Douglas and flipped him over. There is a brief scuffle in the snow (Arthur’s scarf is entirely lost by this point and Douglas’s hat almost follows it) – before Douglas manages to throw both of them off, though he makes no attempt to get up. He simply lies on his back in the snow, grinning into the solid white sky as yet more flakes melt on his cheeks. Martin is similarly once more catching his breath beside him, and Arthur is on the other side of Martin.

‘Budge up,’ says Douglas at length, once all three have calmed down somewhat.

‘What?’

‘I said budge up,’ Douglas repeats, nudging Martin until he is more than an arm’s length away and then spreading his limbs out into a star shape. He proceeds to wave his arms up and down, flat against the snow, and move his legs in a scissor-like fashion.  Either side of the furthest reach of each limb a small ridge of snow builds up, until he has scraped an area almost smooth and free of snow for each. He then very slowly and carefully sits up and looks around, thinking.

‘Give me a hand, would you?’ he asks of his brothers. Arthur immediately jumps up and holds his out, but Martin looks suspicious. Douglas rolls his eyes. ‘I promise I’m not going to pull you over, okay? I need you to help me get up or I’ll ruin it.’

‘Ruin what?’

‘You’ll see if you help me get up.’

Very reluctantly, Martin pushes himself to his feet and positions himself in front of Douglas, beside Arthur. Warily, he reaches out and takes Douglas’s left hand while Arthur does the same on the right. With a grunt and one quickly righted stumble, they manage to haul Douglas to his feet. Shooing them back, Douglas steps forwards gingerly and then turns around to inspect his work.

The snow angel is almost perfect. Arthur and Martin both spontaneously burst into applause, which Douglas basks in for a moment before glancing around apparently carelessly.

‘You can make your own if you just do what I did,’ he tells them. Neither of them hesitates, but practically throw themselves onto the floor where they stand in their haste. Douglas helps Martin up and is actually quite impressed by the result. Arthur does not wait for assistance and in consequence his own angel is scuffed and misshapen, but he does not seem at all disappointed. On the contrary, he quickly steps around it to get at the head and sticks his finger in the snow as though to draw. For a moment Douglas thinks he is adding a halo, but if so it is a halo quite unlike any Douglas has ever seen or imagined. In the end (it’s actually rather fascinating to watch, and Arthur is clearly concentrating hard) Douglas concludes that it is a crude representation of Arthur’s own favourite hand-made hat. He smiles and congratulates his brother’s effort, which only seems to spur Martin into doing something similar. His angel develops a much neater looking hat which actually _could_ almost pass for a halo, being little more than a flattened circle – until he adds the peak and the extra stripe around the rim. Then he adds – is he adding _stripes_ to the wings?

Four of them on each. Douglas should have known. He rolls his eyes, half exasperated and half fond.

‘Well now mine just looks boring,’ he comments drily.

‘You do something to yours, too!’ Arthur suggests happily.

‘I plan to,’ Douglas replies. He flashes a quick smirk and whirls around dramatically, stepping smartly around the edge and towards the head, where, with four quick sweeps of his hand, a pair of curved triangular horns appears. Then he moves to draw a sweeping, curling line away from somewhere around the angel’s waist. He finishes it with what looks like an arrowhead and then looks over to the snowman whose broom has long since fallen to the floor. He wastes no time in snatching it up and fetching it over, laying it carefully so that the handle is over the edge of the angel’s wing, as though being held in its hand. ‘There,’ he says. ‘That’ll do for a pitchfork, don’t you think? Now mine’s a devil.’

‘Douglas!’ Martin protests, sounding scandalised. Douglas grins.

‘Mine is me!’ Arthur explains, unfazed. ‘With a hat,’ he adds.

‘I can see that,’ Douglas observes.

‘Mine’s a pilot,’ Martin points out unnecessarily.

‘Really?’ Douglas asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘I’d never have guessed.’

‘Yeah, look Douglas, you can see the –’

‘Yes, Arthur, I can see that,’ Douglas sighs, though his lips are quirked in amusement rather than the frustration his tone indicates. The three adapted “angels” are in a sort of circle, feet facing inwards, and the three boys are standing very close together in the small space in the middle.

Douglas feels surprisingly accomplished and, for the first time in a while, thoroughly happy.

Martin catches Arthur’s eye behind their brother’s back and grins.

00000

Carolyn gives the boys two or three minutes after the completion of the three snow angels before she calls them in for lunch, then immediately sends them to get changed.

If asked, she would probably say that what she does next is for the sake of getting a little peace and quiet. She would argue that it is solely in order to keep the boys out of the way while she gets on with her own jobs, because love them as she does the three of them do have a habit of getting underfoot.

Very few people would believe her. It would be difficult for even a total stranger to mistake the tenderness on her face as she watches their eyes light up once they come back in some fifteen minutes later, now in clean, dry clothes (although still with damp hair, especially in Martin’s case).

‘Well?’ she demands, though she does allow them to see her brief, unusually indulgent smile. (She knows, even if Douglas apparently doesn’t, that Martin and Arthur did not actually need _quite_ as much help as they made out this morning. She is unutterably proud of all three of them.) ‘What are you waiting for? Tuck in.’

The living room has been transformed in the time they have been upstairs.

The sofa has been pushed back to make a large clear space of floor in front of the television. This space has been filled haphazardly with what looks to be almost every cushion and blanket in the house. Arrayed in plastic bowls, trays, and plates in front of the TV is a display of sandwiches, crisps, sausage rolls, biscuits, jelly – all the sorts of food that might be expected at a child’s birthday party, in short. There is even a large bowl of popcorn. Beside the food is a stack of DVDs, almost all Christmas themed.

All three boys – even Douglas – stare between the feast and their mother with a mixture of excitement and confusion.

‘If I hear a single word of argument, it all goes away and you get on with your homework, understood?’

‘I’ve finished my homework,’ Douglas protests.

‘I’ll give you some more,’ Carolyn assures him severely. ‘Behave, and it can stay until bedtime. Do we have a deal?’

‘What’s it for?’ asks Douglas suspiciously.

‘Where’s Herc?’ asks Arthur before Carolyn can reply.

‘Just putting the finishing touches on desert,’ Herc calls. He emerges from the kitchen with a tray of yesterday’s cookies and a selection of what look like freshly iced gingerbread men. Douglas narrows his eyes when he sees how they have been decorated. There are five of them in all. Two of them are unmistakably depicted as pilots, although one is smaller than the other. One is wearing an elaborate hat. One has devil horns. The final one is wearing what Douglas supposes is intended as a drawing of his mother’s aeroplane necklace (an anniversary gift from Herc). ‘What do you think?’ he asks. Douglas cannot help but feel the question is directed at him, although Herc is not even looking at him when he speaks.

‘They’re _brilliant_!’ Arthur insists, bounding forward to take one. Herc holds them up out of his reach and shakes his head.

‘Not yet,’ he cautions. ‘You need to build your fort first, don’t you?’ He nods towards the pile of soft furnishings behind Arthur and flashes a wink at Carolyn. He was not surprised by how easy it ultimately was to convince his fiancé that the boys deserved a treat. He _was_ surprised by how little she tried to pretend otherwise.

‘Is that one _me_?’ asks Martin, standing on tip-toe and leaning over to get a better look. He indicates the smallest pilot with wide eyes.

‘Of course,’ Herc agrees with a smile.

‘ _Wow_!’ Martin exclaims gleefully. Herc chuckles. He glances up at Douglas and seems on the point of asking him his opinion, but refrains at the last second. Douglas grits his teeth briefly, but relents at the look of tentative expectation on Martin’s face.

‘They’re alright,’ he allows.

‘Thank you very much,’ Herc sounds entirely sincere as he accepts the – from Douglas – extreme compliment.

‘Now go on, get on with it,’ Carolyn interrupts, shooing the boys back towards the living room. ‘We didn’t do all this for you to just ignore it, you know.’ She saves her smile for when they have turned their attention, with great gusto, to organising the pillows and blankets into the most comfortable arrangement possible. She is almost certain that Herc is too focused on watching them to notice her expression.

The pillow fort is constructed with surprising efficiency. Carolyn had expected to have to issue at least one more warning about arguing, but for once any disagreements seem to be quickly and peacefully resolved without the need for parental intervention. The closest they come to needing a reminder is when choosing which DVD they ought to watch, but a raised eyebrow is all that is required to lead them to compromise.

As soon as the boys are settled, Carolyn and Herc retreat to the dining room; close enough to keep an eye on them, but far enough away that they are otherwise largely left to their own devices. Carolyn pulls out the navy blue folder from that morning again and soon has the table covered in sheets of paper alternately studied intently and impatiently discarded. Herc knows better than to interfere and takes out a book, though half his attention is still on his soon-to-be step-sons. Increasingly in his mind he is forgetting to add the qualifier, and is thinking of them merely as his sons; the transition is a surprisingly easy one to make.

00000

By half way through the first film (selected by Douglas), almost all of the food is gone. Only Arthur is still picking at the remains, though he seems to be doing so more from habit than from hunger. Martin’s eyelids are already starting to droop, but he quickly revives when the time comes to change the DVD – he has not forgotten that he was promised first choice for this one. No one is surprised when he picks out _Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ , his uncontested favourite.

00000

Several hours later Carolyn is still marvelling at the afternoon’s success. There has only been one disagreement which has necessitated her involvement, and even that was cut off before anyone stormed out of the room or burst into tears (a not unusual occurrence when dealing with three small and frequently extremely stubborn boys). In fact, when it comes time to call them for dinner even Douglas has begun to doze off, curled like a cat in a small dent amid the heap of blankets. Martin is slumped back, fast asleep, leaning against the edge of the sofa. Arthur is apparently the only one still fully conscious, although he seems to have made himself a sort of nest between Douglas and the (now empty) food trays, with only the top of his head fully visible where it pokes out from beneath a patchwork quilt.

00000

The next day follows a similar pattern; the schools are still closed, the roads are still blocked, and Herc’s flight is still cancelled. Carolyn leaves the boys under his watch while she struggles through to the sweet shop, though business is so slow she probably needn’t have bothered.

When she returns home, having given up and closed the shop in the early afternoon, she discovers that the boys spent most of the morning at the playground with Theresa, who managed to talk them into going sledging with her. Martin was apparently reluctant at first, but seems almost as enthusiastic about it as Arthur when telling his mother about it. Douglas tries to pass himself off as indifferent. Carolyn knows him too well to fall for the ruse, although she is careful not to let that show.

All three of them are exhausted by bedtime, and all three fall asleep within minutes of lights out. Part of Carolyn thinks she could get used to this. The other part is intensely relieved when the following morning yields roads clear enough to allow the schools to open again, although this presents its own set of problems to deal with. There is only so long the peace of the last two days can last between her sons even under normal circumstances, and these are not normal circumstances.

Martin is tense and nervous about the upcoming Nativity announcement, which makes him snappish and argumentative. Douglas initially does his best to defuse the situation, but his own temper is not going to set any long distance records recently either, so the two are quickly squabbling with greater than average bitterness. Even Arthur is caught up in a quarrel over who ate the last of the coco pops, which all three boys vehemently deny doing. By the time Carolyn has to herd them all into her car for the school run none of them are speaking to each other. Martin and Douglas sit pressed up against the doors in the back, as far as they can possibly get from each other and glaring out of the windows furiously. Arthur keeps sneaking worried glances towards Carolyn and fidgets in silence for the whole journey. Judging by his scowl alongside his nervous lip-biting, he is torn between trying to make amends as quickly as possible, and being just as surly and proud as both of his brothers.

School grounds are neutral territory, however, and in any case most of Martin’s ire is reserved for Douglas, so he permits Arthur to walk with him up to the doors of Fitton Primary even though he still does not speak. He does not look back at Douglas, but Arthur does. Douglas’s scorching gaze has turned to the back of his mother’s seat in order to avoid accidentally making eye contact with either of his brothers, though, so he doesn’t see.

‘You’ll be okay, Skip,’ Arthur advises tentatively as they reach the door to the cloakroom, deliberately using the recently acquired nickname in order to boost Martin’s spirits in the only way he knows how.

‘No I won’t,’ Martin argues, sounding somewhere between irritated and despondent. They pause to knock the snow from their shoes on the doormat and shrug off their coats. ‘Douglas was right this morning. Why would I get to be Gabriel? I’m rubbish.’

‘You’re not though!’ Arthur insists. For his part, all of his annoyance with his siblings has evaporated by now; he has never been able to hold a grudge for very long. His behaviour in the car was more a case of trying to keep up appearances (and mimicking his brothers) than anything.

‘Yes I am.’

‘And even if you’re not Gabriel you’ll still be brilliant,’ Arthur continues, hanging up his own coat with a sense of determined finality and turning to face Martin with his hands on his hips. He looks very like their mother in that moment.

‘But I _want_ to be Gabriel. That’s the whole _point_. It’s the only reason I want to be in the stupid play. How is it going to be brilliant if I can’t do that?’ Martin demands petulantly.

‘Well… because you’re you,’ Arthur replies, looking confused. ‘You’re brilliant anyway.’

That freezes Martin in his tracks. He blinks several times, opens his mouth as if to reply and then closes it again. Then, frowning as though working his way through a complicated equation, he manages to reply.

‘You… you really think so?’

‘Yes?’ it sounds like a question. To Arthur, Martin failing to notice or even believe the fact of his own brilliance is apparently unthinkable. Can’t either of his brothers see how amazing they are? He knows his Mum feels like that sometimes, but he thinks she’s better with Herc. He doesn’t really understand all of the complexities involved, but he does know that she smiles more now than she used to, and that’s enough proof for him.

‘… Thank you, Arthur,’ says Martin eventually. He is at a loss for what else to respond with.

‘That’s okay!’ Arthur grins and turns to rummage in his backpack for his pencil case. Martin watches him for a moment, forehead creased with faint bemusement, before following suit.

00000

When the bell rings at nine o’clock the two boys separate to their respective classes, Arthur flashing a quick thumbs up for good luck and Martin smiling weakly in response, feeling slightly nauseous.

Martin is unsettled all the way through registration, and it takes Molly nudging his arm for him to realise his name has been called. Mr Fell raises his eyebrows over the top of his clipboard, pen poised to mark him present, and Martin blushes as he mumbles his reply.

By ten o’clock the entire lower school (including Reception – Arthur’s year – through to year three – one above Martin) has gathered in the assembly hall. Several teachers are dotted around the edges, keeping a watchful eye out for potential disruption. Mr Fell is at the front, holding a single sheet of paper with both hands and peering around sternly as he waits for quiet. Martin’s fingers are crossed so tightly in his pockets that they hurt. Arthur twists around from his seat in the front row to give him an encouraging smile, and Theresa elbows him gently to get his attention before whispering that she’s sure he’ll be fine.

‘Yes,’ he replies automatically, not paying attention. ‘I mean – you too, I’m sure you’ll – not that you wouldn’t –’

‘If everyone is ready?’ Mr Fell calls, with a pointed look towards those, like Martin and Theresa, who are chattering or fidgeting. Martin hardly listens as the teacher reels off a brief introduction, praising everyone who has made an effort, claiming it was difficult to separate out the talent shown… Telling them that he has done his best to assign everyone a suitable role… If they don’t have a speaking part then it’s no bad reflection on them… He finishes by wishing them all luck and instructing them to take a script from his dark haired assistant _at the end of assembly_ and not before, and then clears his throat.

Martin’s heart is in his mouth. His hands are clammy and he thinks he might throw up. He swallows hard and tries to listen as Mr Fell begins reading out names.

‘The parts of Mary and Joseph,’ he begins in a clear, carrying voice, ‘will be played by Theresa and John.’ He pauses and smiles, while Martin flashes a grin of genuine satisfaction at Theresa. She looks very pleased with herself and exchanges a brief glance of encouragement with their old pirating crewmate. There is a burst of chatter – some of it congratulatory and some of it disappointed – which Mr Fell quells with a look.

‘The three Wise Men will be played by Sherlock, Arthur, and Carlos.’ There is another smattering of disturbance at this, while everyone glances around to identify the three children named and either congratulate them or commiserate with their friends. Martin smiles shakily at Arthur’s beaming face and snorts quietly with amusement at the surprise and indignation in Sherlock’s expression. He does not recognise the third boy, who is grinning shyly as his neighbour pumps his fist with victory.

‘Linda, Molly, and Earl will be our Shepherds.’ Martin just about manages to nod at Molly. He only vaguely recognises the other two children. Both of them are in the year above him, and one of them is immediately enveloped in the arms of the Wise Man’s friend while the other tries to look modest as she accepts her own neighbour’s compliments.

Martin’s nerves are reaching such a point that he is barely capable of thinking about anything but his own casting. He wants to be Gabriel _so badly_. He thinks of the wings he has stored at home, which have taken so very long to create, and prays for the opportunity to wear them. Theresa tugs at one of his hands, pulling it out of his pocket and wrapping both of her own around it. He does not uncross his fingers or return her gesture, but he hopes his stiff glance manages to convey his gratitude.

‘Our angel Gabriel,’ Mr Fell reads out at last, with a prim but not unsympathetic glance towards Martin, ‘will be played by Adam Young.’

Martin’s heart plummets. He feels a sudden brief rush of heat to his scalp and a lurch in his stomach as though he has missed a step going down the stairs. He is amazed by the power of his own disappointment, and barely hears Theresa’s murmured comfort beside him. The rest of the announcements pass entirely over his head. He completely misses Arthur’s friend Tim being cast as the innkeeper and the unknown Wise Man’s enthusiastic friend being named as narrator. It takes Theresa to whisper in his ear when his own name is read out. The indignity of his being a sheep is entirely lost within his own self-pity, and even the fact that his erstwhile tormentor Becky Garfield is cast as a donkey does not offer him any amusement.

He is devastated.

He does not cry though, no matter how much he wants to.

Not until break time, anyway.

While the majority of the school are enjoying the now rather slushy remnants of half-melted snow, Martin slumps on a brushed-clear patch of damp wooden bench at the edge of the field. Messy tears dribble down his face as his breath hitches with half-suppressed sobs.

‘Don’t cry, Martin,’ Theresa urges, perching beside him and laying a tentative hand on his shoulder.

‘But I w-wanted to be G- _Gabriel_ ,’ Martin insists, roughly dashing the moisture from his cheeks. ‘I m-made wings and everything and I w-want to _fly_ and – and –’

‘But you wouldn’t really _be_ flying,’ Molly tries, unsuccessfully, to console him. She is sitting on the bench on the other side of Martin to Theresa, and the two girls are curved protectively towards their friend. They exchange a look that verges on fright, entirely uncertain what to do in the face of Martin’s storm of distress.

‘You can still wear the wings if you want to,’ Theresa puts in. She wants to go and get a teacher – she doesn’t know how to make her friend stop crying and she wants _help_ – but she daren’t in case it makes him worse.

‘Sh-sheep don’t have _wings_ ,’ Martin shoots back derisively. Or it would sound derisive if it weren’t for the way his voice shakes when he speaks.

‘Not for the _play_ ,’ Theresa corrects. ‘Just… you can come to my house and I can make some wings and we can both be angels if you want. Molly can come too.’

‘It’s not the same,’ Martin argues petulantly. Molly and Theresa are at a loss. There is a long moment of awkward silence before either of them speaks again.

‘We – do you want to play Aeroplanes?’ Molly suggests nervously. It has never failed to cheer Martin up before. He shakes his head. Molly glances up at Theresa, alarmed, to see the other girl biting her lip. Theresa meets Molly’s eyes and then flicks her gaze away, scanning briefly over the rest of the children with particular attention to the younger years. She quickly spots Arthur, who is playing tag with a group of other Reception children but seems distracted – he keeps looking over to the trio on the bench, although he is too far away for her to make out his expression. Theresa turns back to Molly and jerks her head pointedly towards their friend’s brother. Molly, catching on immediately, nods and moves away before Martin can notice the exchange.

‘It’ll be okay,’ Theresa soothes absently while waiting for Molly to return with Arthur.

‘I’m _useless_. Douglas was right,’ Martin repeats stubbornly.

‘Douglas is _stupid_ ,’ Theresa snaps. Martin looks up so quickly his neck hurts, wide-eyed with shock. ‘How come you’ll listen to him saying nasty things but not all three of us saying nice things?’ she demands impatiently.

‘Three –?’ Martin, Theresa is satisfied to see, is so surprised by her outburst that he forgets to cry. Theresa nods towards the open field, across which Molly and Arthur are now marching with a resolve that is visible even at a distance. He leans back when they finally reach the bench: Molly hangs back, but Arthur continues until he is right in front of Martin, hands on his hips and glaring with all the severity he can muster.

‘You are _not_ useless,’ he insists. ‘You’re _brilliant_.’

He goes on to accuse everyone who might have suggested otherwise of being useless themselves. In an Arthur-ish sort of way at least, which of course mainly involves the description “not brilliant”, but it gets the point across. By the end of his little speech Martin cannot help but smile weakly, although it is as much from the look of fierce defiance on his brother’s face as from his actual words.

00000

By the time they make it home that afternoon, Martin and Arthur are on fully friendly terms again and Martin has adopted a faux indifferent attitude to Mr Fell’s clearly erroneous casting choices.

Douglas has chess club (he and Mycroft Holmes are still each determined to prove themselves the better player; so far they have one win each) so he does not arrive until an hour or so after his brothers. He finds them kneeling on the floor of the living room either side of a _Buckaroo_ game board with matching looks of intense concentration on their faces. Neither of them looks up when he walks in. They may have called a truce between themselves, but they are still not talking to Douglas. (Arthur’s eyes flicker upwards sadly, but neither Martin nor Douglas notice.)

Well, fine then. He dumps his bag with a scowl and makes his way through to the kitchen for a drink. If they’re going to be like that, let them. What does he care? He finishes his drink and slams the glass down onto the worktop with such force that it’s a wonder it doesn’t break. _Fine_.

He is so determined not to be bothered that he is halfway back across the living room before he hears Arthur calling him.

‘What?’ he snaps, spinning round and glaring at them. He ignores Herc’s pointed look from his corner armchair.

‘Do you want to play?’ Arthur asks. Martin is looking surly and refusing to meet Douglas’s eyes, but he does not openly object. Douglas looks sharply between Herc and Arthur, wondering whose idea it was and whether it would be more hassle to agree and put up with Martin’s ongoing sulk, or disagree and risk upsetting Arthur or irritating Herc (the first is not at all desirable; the latter is very much so). Herc has gone back to his newspaper and does not appear to be paying the slightest attention (although Douglas’s suspicious nature means that he is not quite convinced).

‘… Fine,’ Douglas agrees at last. He grits his teeth and takes off his coat, leaving briefly to hang it up in the hall. When he returns Martin and Arthur are both patiently waiting for him to take a seat, having shifted aside obligingly to make room.

They play in tense silence for several minutes. Part of it is leftover bad feeling from their fight this morning, but part of it is that they are reluctant to make any unnecessary sound or movement, lest they cause the plastic mule to spring up and cast his luggage across the floor.

Predictably, it is Martin who eventually loses. Douglas isn’t sure what makes him react the way he does. It could be that he simply does not want to deal with the tantrum he can see clearly building up in his brother. Or it could be that he is genuinely trying to make amends.

‘Sorry,’ he apologises almost immediately. ‘I nudged the board; that was my fault. Can we try again?’

Martin does not look like he believes him. His lip trembles for a moment, somewhere between grief and fury, and then he bursts out, ‘I didn’t get the part.’

‘What?’ Douglas is momentarily wrong-footed. Arthur is scrambling to pick up the scattered game pieces.

‘I’m not Gabriel, I’m a sheep.’ (If Herc reacts to this statement, the first he has heard of Martin’s actual role in the play beyond not-Gabriel, none of the boys notice.) ‘You were right, I was rubbish.’

‘I never said you’d be rubbish,’ Douglas argues automatically.

‘Yes you _did_. This morning.’

‘I did _not_.’

‘You did,’ Arthur interrupts helpfully. ‘I heard you.’ Douglas turns a scathing look towards him, and Arthur quails under its force. ‘Sorry,’ he amends quickly.

‘Well… well I didn’t _mean_ it,’ Douglas insists stubbornly.

‘Then why did you _say_ it?’ Martin demands, pouting sulkily.

‘I was angry,’ Douglas replies, defensive.

‘You were _mean_ ,’ Martin accuses, and he really does look genuinely hurt.

‘I –’ Douglas begins, disliking the way the words taste in his mouth but determined to get them out. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Really?’ Martin asks, half hopeful and half challenging.

‘Really,’ Douglas assures him. ‘You’re not rubbish, I promise.’

(Well, he sort of _is_ , Douglas has seen his attempts at acting, but he acknowledges that it wasn’t really necessary to _point it out_.)

‘Anyway,’ he continues. ‘Have you forgotten what I said about you and Arthur making your own?’

From the look on Martin’s face, the answer is yes. From the look on Arthur’s, this is now happening no matter what anyone else says.

‘Just me and Arthur?’ Martin asks slowly.

‘Well, and Theresa if she wants to get involved.’

‘What about you?’ Martin’s voice is almost shrewd now.

‘Not me,’ Douglas denies adamantly. ‘It’s not my play.’

‘But three people aren’t _enough_!’ Martin complains. ‘And you’d be really good at it.’

‘I’m not doing it.’

‘ _Please_ , Douglas?’ Arthur begs, actually clasping his hands in front of him and trying his very best to look as endearing as possible (which is, to be fair, quite endearing indeed).

‘Please?’ Martin echoes, not quite assuming the prayer position but managing to look suitably imploring nevertheless.

‘ _Please_?’ Both boys repeat, stretching the word out for several beats. Even Martin is now clasping his hands, and both of them are struggling not to laugh.

Douglas huffs an enormous sigh and rolls his eyes. Unless you were looking very closely, and knew Douglas very well, you would not notice the slight lift at the corners of his mouth. (Martin and Arthur are looking closely, and they know him better than anyone.)

‘ _Fine_ ,’ Douglas relents eventually. He manages – just – not to join in with his brothers’ cheers of celebration. ‘If Mum says we can.’

‘Do you think she will?’ Martin asks, instantly cautious once more.

‘Probably,’ Douglas allows, sounding slightly more confident than he feels. (Only slightly, though. He is _very_ persuasive, after all, and he knows it.)

00000

That was Wednesday.

By Saturday they have it all organised. It took an entire evening and a long list of promised chores from all three of them, but Carolyn agreed in the end. Herc was much easier to convince, possibly as a result of being overly keen to get into Douglas’s good books.

Martin will, of course, be Gabriel.

Douglas stands in place of all three Wise Men. Arthur plays all three Shepherds.

Arthur’s earnest attempts to talk Carolyn and Herc into playing Mary and Joseph fall flat practically before they are voiced, so they call in Molly and Theresa instead.

All farm animals are, to both Martin and Herc’s relief, dispensed with.

The home performance takes place on Sunday, and is a roaring success. Martin hardly stops grinning from the moment Carolyn helps him into his wings until he finally takes them off, which he refuses to do until bedtime. Even then he only agrees once his mother points out that they would break if he tried to sleep in them. His acting is enthusiastic if nothing else; he even outstrips Arthur in his eagerness.

Douglas performs his roles with impressive gusto, despite at first attempting to make it abundantly clear that he is only going along with it to please his brothers. He does not allow himself to smile, but does assume a peculiarly stiff expression which does not entirely hide the brightness of his eyes.

Herc is roped in at the last minute to act as innkeeper. He takes it very seriously, or appears to. At one point he flashes a slightly mischievous smile towards Carolyn, but if his amusement is at anyone’s expense it is his own, rather than the boys’. Carolyn’s lips quirk in what could be either irritation or fondness – it is difficult to say for certain. She does permit herself to applaud at the end, when her fiancé, her three sons, and their two friends line up with various degrees of nervous excitement on their faces and _bow_ to her.

She will maintain that it is something she _permits_ no matter what you say; something she does because she ought to, not something spontaneous. It is absolutely not something that happens without her conscious decision. It is _not_ something that she only realises she is doing when she sees the nerves on the young performers’ faces transform to intense pride and relief. (Even Herc relaxes somewhat, and there is a glint in his eye that Carolyn has come to associate with still-unwelcome open declarations of his feelings.)

Just because she doesn’t admit it, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

It might be best not to mention that, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pre-series ficlet on tumblr, courtesy of a prompt from [Linguini](http://linguini17.tumblr.com/): [Douglas and Carolyn; compassion, crayons, cats](http://elvendorkinfinity.tumblr.com/post/88387136923/douglas-and-carolyn-compassion-crayons-cats).
> 
> Anyone unsure of what the game Buckaroo involves: [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buckaroo!_%28game%29) and/or [YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CKXjou-RlSI) (skip to about 1:20).


	3. The Santa Clause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a light at the end of the tunnel, but it might be a while before we get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I've been building towards this chapter ever since September... All the usual re: I do not own Cabin Pressure etc, and thank you to prettybirdy979 for being an amazing beta. By the way: The chapter title is not mis-spelt. It's a film reference (as are the other two). Enjoy!

The school Nativity takes place a week after the boys’ home performance. It goes off without a hitch, but everyone agrees – loudly and always in front of Martin – that the first was better by far. Whether or not this is true doesn’t seem to matter very much in the end, though, as it is all practically forgotten within a few days.

The boys have far more important things on their minds. It is Christmas in less than two weeks, and emotions in the Knapp-Shappey-Shipwright household are running higher than ever. For the most part excitement takes the lead; Arthur is practically bursting with it and Martin is almost as giddily restless as his younger brother while they wait impatiently for the end of term. There is also a certain tension, though, which is increasingly hard to ignore.

Douglas is _excited_ , of course – it’s Christmas after all, and he is only twelve – but he does his best to play it down. For one thing he is almost a teenager now; he has reached an age where no matter how much he wants to join in with his brothers’ childish antics, he is beginning to be embarrassed to do so. He is conscious all the time of the changing expectations as he progresses through his first year of secondary school, and veers wildly between embracing the concept wholeheartedly and rejecting it out of hand.

For another, there is the constant looming threat of the deadline for Herc’s promise approaching. Douglas still has not decided which outcome he is hoping for or which he really expects. He knows what he fears, and he knows what he tells himself he expects, but which feeling is genuine and which is informed by his own anxieties and determination not to be disappointed, he cannot work out.

He mentions none of this, however. He has spent quite long enough thinking about it himself. Even if he were inclined to seek help or advice, which he is not, that would require devoting yet more attention to the problem. He refuses point blank to do so.

Everyone notices anyway. Herc is increasingly careful around him; he treads a very fine line between suffocating Douglas with attention (which some days might consist only of a simple “good morning”) and ignoring him entirely. Herc cannot figure out which would be worse, and decides to simply take each interaction as it comes and hope for the best. The closer they get to Christmas the more seriously he considers taking Douglas aside and addressing the problem directly, or else just leaving the X-Box on Douglas’s bed without a word. He does neither, but frequently discusses the possibility with Carolyn.

Carolyn herself tries her hardest not to act any differently than usual, and does surprisingly well. She is perhaps a little more forgiving of Douglas’s outbursts of temper, and a little more generous with her praise than normal, but she keeps both of these to an absolute bare minimum. She does not think that Douglas notices. (She is right; Douglas is far too distracted to spare any attention to unravelling his mother’s motives.)

Martin and Arthur try their best, which is far from perfect. The effort is there, though.

Arthur does better than Martin, although whether this is a conscious ability or not is debatable. Arthur is simply too relentlessly optimistic and loving to let anything keep him down for long, so any arguments that _do_ occur are quickly resolved. He is always so keen to help that doing so is second nature to him already, and if he is extra attentive to his older brother’s whims recently, no one pays any attention. (Carolyn does notice him biting his lip to stop himself exclaiming “yellow car” three times in a row, however. She isn’t sure if he was trying to stay quiet so as not to irritate Douglas, or if he was trying to give Douglas the opportunity to say it first. She does not know if Douglas notices either way.)

Martin… tries. He and Douglas are a stubborn and prickly pair, though, and their disagreements can be ferocious. When they get along, they get along extremely well. When they don’t, there are almost always tears – in the past usually from Martin, but lately it is anyone’s bet whose they are likely to be.

The last few days of term alternately creep and fly past. Great chunks of time disappear when the boys are busy and they wonder where entire afternoons have gone, but then they start taking notice again and bedtime is an age in coming, sleep another age more if it comes at all. Carolyn wakes more than once at gone midnight to hear them sneaking into each other’s rooms to talk in voices nowhere near as hushed as they seem to think. On school nights she – or Herc – puts a swift stop to it. In her case, at least, it takes little more than a knock on the offenders’ door and a stern glare. On weekends she lets it slide.

The last day of the school term is a Wednesday. There is no snow, but a fierce frost sets in overnight so that by morning the whole of Fitton is glittering with it. Puddles and ponds are frozen solid; roads and paths are slick with black ice. Arthur is fascinated by the soft puffs of condensation when he breathes, and Martin falls twice just on the way to the car. Carolyn struggles to open the car – the doors are frozen shut – and it takes several minutes to scrape the ice from the windscreen so that she can see to drive. She takes it slowly on the way to school; more than one vehicle is stopped at an odd angle by the side of the badly gritted road and the scattered few pedestrians are slipping and sliding dangerously close to the curb.

Arthur and Martin have to shuffle from the car to the school door, clasping each other’s hands tightly and gritting their teeth with the concentration it takes to stay upright. Carolyn watches them into the building and hopes that either the ice will melt by break-time or the children will be kept indoors. The clouds overhead are heavy with threatened precipitation, but whether snow, rain, or hail is more likely Carolyn couldn’t guess.

Douglas is quiet for the remainder of the journey. It is not a tense silence, though; he does not seem particularly angry or nervous, as he has of late. He is only… thoughtful. Carolyn leaves him to his reflection, and when they arrive at his school he waves cheerfully enough and starts to jog (and then slows to a fast walk at Carolyn’s admonition) towards his waiting friends.

00000

The last day of the school term is, almost universally, a complete waste of time – if, that is, you are judging purely from an academically productive standpoint. Taking into account the pure enjoyment of the pupils, it is possibly the best day of the year.

Few if any of the teachers with classes of year ten or below at Douglas’s secondary school bother to even attempt to set work, and certainly none at Fitton Primary deem it worth the effort. None of it will get done anyway, and struggling to force it on restless, excited children four days before Christmas will not benefit anyone.

This is not to say that no activities at all are planned, however. Douglas spends most of an extremely enjoyable morning making red and green slime in science, then inventing festive limericks in English. Arthur’s class is set loose with what seems to be most of the school craft supplies, with varying results but a great deal of enthusiasm from everyone involved. Martin and the rest of the year twos are given their choice of films, but take so long to decide what to watch that they don’t get to finish before the bell rings at lunchtime.

It being a half day, Carolyn picks them up shortly after noon and finds all three of them giddier and more excited than ever. Arthur is, predictably, covered in a mixture of glue and red glittery paint. Douglas is carrying two little plastic boxes of actual _slime_ , which he keeps threatening to put down Martin’s jumper. Martin is relatively clean, minus the dirty patches on his knees from his most recent fall, but is literally bouncing up and down in his seat the entire way home. Not one of Carolyn’s increasingly irritable warnings to _stay still_ seems to sink in at all.

‘Right,’ says Carolyn sharply once they have come to a halt in the driveway, cutting off the engine and leaning back in her seat. She turns to look first at Douglas beside her, then Martin behind him. ‘What are you all going to do now?’

‘Can we play Monopoly?’ Arthur asks immediately, jumping forwards from his position behind the driver’s seat so that his knees are digging into Carolyn’s back. His chubby fingers tug painfully at her hair where he grips the headrest. Pulling the errant strands gently to safety, Carolyn twists further to try and get a glimpse of her youngest son, who is beaming with excitement.

‘Where on earth did you get that idea?’

‘Gerry from school told me,’ Arthur replies, sounding eager enough that he must have been actually _waiting_ for the opportunity to suggest this. ‘He says his sister got a board for her birthday and she’s always the dog and Gerry has to be the car even though he doesn’t want to be, but I wouldn’t mind really and Phil said he thinks there should be a fire engine and –’

‘Arthur, breathe,’ Carolyn interrupts firmly. Arthur obediently snaps his mouth shut and takes a deep breath through his nose, which he holds until Carolyn nods her permission for him to start speaking again.

‘And it sounds really fun, so can we play please?’ he finishes, in a rushed but surprisingly level voice.

‘I think I’ve got a board somewhere,’ Carolyn allows. She raises her eyebrows and glances questioningly between her two older sons. ‘Well boys? What do you think?’ she prompts, not entirely certain which answers she is hoping for. If they support Arthur’s suggestion then it should keep them busy for an hour or so at least, and anything that keeps them busy this close to Christmas can only be a good thing. On the other hand, she has seen the sorts of arguments her boys can get in over the simplest of games and although rows are to some degree inevitable, it seems foolish to just lead them straight into one.

Douglas shrugs as though the decision is of no importance to him, although Carolyn can see the calculating look in his eyes that says he would relish the opportunity to show off. Martin bites his lip thoughtfully.

‘Is there an aeroplane piece?’ he asks.

‘No,’ says Douglas before Carolyn can reply. ‘There’s a hat, though,’ he adds consolingly when he sees the crestfallen look on Martin’s face. He unbuckles his seatbelt and starts to get out of the car.

‘Is it a pilot’s hat?’ Martin queries eagerly, scrambling to follow suit and continue the conversation.

‘No. It’s a top hat. They’re… sort of important too?’ Douglas glances at his mother as though uncertain.

‘There’s a boat, as well,’ she adds, now out of the car herself and striding towards the front door. All three boys hurry to follow her. ‘You could be Captain of that.’ She unlocks the door and steps aside to let them in; they immediately stop in the hall and begin shrugging off their coats and bags. Martin gets himself so tangled that Douglas has to step in and help him, which he does seemingly automatically.

‘I’m going to be the car,’ Douglas announces, tugging at the zip of Martin’s coat, which is stuck. ‘What about you Arthur?’

‘What are the other pieces?’ asks Arthur, now standing watching Douglas with his coat half-on and half-off, his open rucksack held loosely in one hand and only his scarf hanging on the little blue plastic peg behind him.

‘Why don’t I go and get the box and we’ll have a look?’ Carolyn suggests, carefully stepping over and between the discarded bags and outdoor clothing towards the stairs. ‘I want all of this put away _tidily_ by the time I get down or you’re not playing, understood?’

‘Yes Mum,’ the boys chorus dutifully. Arthur turns around promptly to hang his bag up and continue shrugging out of his coat, while Douglas gives Martin’s zip a final sharp jerk and then pulls his brother’s coat and bag off all in one before loading them onto the middle peg.

‘Go do your shoes,’ Douglas instructs. Martin obeys without complaint.

00000

Ten minutes later the three boys, now fully divested of their school and outdoor things, are kneeling in a circle in the middle of the living room floor with an open cardboard Monopoly box between them. Martin is frowning at the rule book and reading the instructions aloud in a halting but (he hopes) authoritative voice, while Douglas deals out the money and Arthur inspects the little silver playing pieces. Carolyn is supervising, coffee in hand, from the relatively safe position of the sofa.

‘Mum?’ Arthur speaks up thoughtfully, now scrutinising one piece in particular. ‘Can _we_ have a dog? A real one?’

‘No,’ replies Carolyn automatically, caught off-guard by the question. Martin has abruptly stopped reading and is twisting around to look at her and even Douglas has gone curiously still.

‘Please Mum?’ Arthur begs.

‘ _Please_?’ Martin adds, immediately taken with the idea. ‘We’d look after it! We promise, we –’

‘Where did this idea come from?’ Carolyn interrupts, but does not wait for a reply. ‘I’m sorry boys, but we really don’t have the time, or the money –’

‘Can you think about it?’ Arthur asks, having now completely abandoned any pretence of attention for the game. He still holds the little dog playing piece loosely in one hand, but his gaze is fixed on Carolyn.

‘It doesn’t matter how much I think about it, I can’t just conjure up resources we don’t have,’ Carolyn explains as patiently as she can. She ignores the pang of guilt as Arthur’s face falls. There isn’t anything she can do to change matters; they really _can’t_ afford a pet – they don’t have the time, the money, the space… or do they? She has to admit, if only to herself, that her refusal was more instinct than a considered opinion. Even if she agreed, though, by the time they had got round to actually doing something about it the boys will probably have lost interest. They certainly can’t get a pet of any sort before the New Year, and then there is the wedding to worry about… No. They’ll have forgotten all about it by then.

‘But what if we did?’ Arthur presses eagerly.

‘Arthur, I really can’t –’

‘We’d help!’ Martin cuts in, turning completely and rising up onto his knees. ‘We’d – wouldn’t we Douglas?’

‘We’d help,’ Douglas agrees, more quietly than his brothers but – to Carolyn – no less obviously keen on the idea.

Carolyn looks sternly between each of her sons; Arthur and Martin are both giving her their very best pleading faces, the game apparently abandoned. Douglas is watching her carefully, not quite concealing his own interest in the matter but seeming rather more nonchalant than either of his brothers. Carolyn – who has a will of iron when she so chooses, and who has never been known to back down on anything against her better opinion – nevertheless feels her resolve quavering. Had her first answer been thought through there is no way her mind would have been changed, and certainly not so easily. She is still not saying that she has _changed_ her mind now, but…

‘I am not making any promises,’ she allows slowly. Arthur cheers and scrambles to his feet, throwing himself into her lap and wrapping his arms around her shoulders with surprising strength for such a small child. Carolyn cannot help but smile slightly, and returns the hug with one arm. Her eyes are still fixed on the other two boys, though, neither of whom have moved except to sit up slightly straighter. ‘And certainly not until after the wedding,’ she continues, ‘but… I will _consider_ it.’

‘Yes!’ Martin quickly follows Arthur’s example and even Douglas grins briefly. Carolyn gently disengages herself from her younger sons’ arms.

‘Don’t get your hopes up too high,’ she warns. ‘This is a very big decision. It needs a lot of planning. You’d all have to chip in; you wouldn’t be able to stop just because you got bored, or because it’s difficult.’

‘We know,’ says Martin, climbing back down from the sofa and standing in front of Carolyn, twisting his fingers together nervously.

‘It’s a big responsibility.’

‘We know,’ Douglas replies this time, meeting Carolyn’s eyes with a very sincere expression on his face.

‘I love helping,’ Arthur assures her, still half on her lap but leaning back far enough that she can see his face now.

‘Well, I’ll speak to Herc,’ Carolyn pauses, looking slowly between each of her son’s tentatively eager faces, trying to impress upon them the importance of such a decision. ‘And we will _see_. Alright?’

‘Okay!’ Arthur agrees swiftly.

‘Douglas?’

‘Yes, Mum,’ Douglas replies dutifully.

‘Martin?’

‘Alright,’ Martin nods.

‘Okay then,’ Carolyn says briskly. ‘I will let you know. Now, don’t you all have a game to play?’

00000

To Carolyn’s immense – and pleasant – surprise, no major arguments are caused by what ends up as a two-hour long game of Monopoly (eventually abandoned when Arthur becomes too distracted by Herc’s arrival to continue). There are murmurs of disagreement more than once, but they are always resolved before anything too dramatic happens.

Douglas, predictably, is an expert player despite never having attempted the game before. Less predictably, it quickly becomes apparent that his success is by no means assured, as Martin and Arthur – to their own great surprise as much as anyone else’s – are rather good themselves. True, Arthur has to frequently ask for Carolyn’s assistance when it comes to most things involving maths of any sort, and Martin tends to be so over-cautious that even once he finally starts acquiring properties few of them are ever built on, but they manage remarkably well for novices.

Martin seems to have a habit of building up stores of money that even he doesn’t realise that he has. Arthur somehow accidentally ends up with almost all of the most valuable properties on the board. Douglas is the only one who really understands the game well enough to employ actual _tactics_ , but by Carolyn’s estimation he only manages to win by a very small margin.

The end of the game is abrupt and unplanned. Arthur launches himself into Herc’s arms the minute the pilot walks in the door – knocking game pieces flying – and hurries into a rapid explanation of everything he has done today. Martin grins sheepishly from the floor and chips in details once or twice, in the rare moments when Arthur pauses for breath. Douglas slips quietly out of the room and upstairs without a single word of greeting.

00000

The next three days pass in much the same fashion, with an ever-increasing sense of urgency that is part excitement and part unreasonably nervous anticipation. Every board game in the house is taken out at least once. Three rows are caused by who gets to have control of the television remote, one when Martin loses Douglas’s Gameboy (again) and one when Arthur accidentally spills paint on Martin’s latest model aeroplane project. Douglas barely says a word to Herc. Arthur hardly stops talking to anyone and everyone who will listen, and often those who won’t. Martin is alternately giddy and irritable, and unable to settle to anything.

Douglas wakes on the morning of Christmas Eve and immediately decides to spend as much of it alone as humanly possible. He knows he has built the entire deal with the X-Box up in his head to frankly ridiculous proportions, but he can’t seem to stop thinking about it and about the implications of whatever the outcome ends up being. His is so nervous that he actually feels sick and has to force himself to eat his breakfast before quickly vanishing back to his room again, barely listening to the others discuss their plans for the day.

He shuts the door quietly and slumps down onto his bed as though he has had a long and exhausting day, despite it only being eight o’clock in the morning. He leans back against the wall with his feet sticking out over the side of the bed and closes his eyes.

One more day. One more day until he knows.

He just wants it _over with_ already.  He cannot stand this waiting anymore. He is almost at the point of not even caring what the outcome _is_ – he just wants to stop _wondering_.

Maybe if he can manage to go back to sleep then the day will pass more quickly. He will have to make an appearance for dinner, but he can probably get away with skipping lunch, and then he can sleep through the night, and then it will be tomorrow, and – and then he will know.

 _Oh, God, and then he will know_.

He slips off his bed and starts pacing, hating his own circular thoughts, hating this rut he has worked himself into, hating that he even suggested the deal in the first place. He had never thought it would become this important. He had never thought he would _care_ this much.

He kicks aside his remote-control car, which clatters into one of the legs of the bed, marches towards the window and then spins around again towards the other side of the room. He reaches the wall pivots, walks back again – and stops dead halfway across when he hears a soft knocking at the door.

‘Douglas?’ Martin’s voice calls through tentatively. Douglas closes his eyes and pushes one hand roughly through his hair. _Not now_ , he wants to scream – he just wants to be left alone, to while away the time until tomorrow and then – and then – something. He will decide what happens next when he gets there.

‘Can we come in?’ Arthur asks, sounding unusually cautious.

Douglas grits his teeth and turns towards the door without moving to open it.

‘What do you want?’

He watches the door handle move slowly down, and Arthur’s face appear in the crack as he pushes it open, one hand still gripping the handle above his head. Martin is standing behind him clutching a large, battered hardback book with both arms. They are wearing identical expressions that mingle nerves with some emotion which Douglas can’t identify.

‘Can – can you read to us?’ Martin requests quietly, holding up the book slightly to give Douglas a better view. It is a collection of short stories – one for each day of the year – which they have owned for so long that Douglas can’t remember a time without it, and which is now held together largely by copious amounts of sellotape.

‘Can’t you get Mum to do it? Or Herc?’

‘They’re busy,’ Martin explains. Douglas is almost certain this is not true, not least because Arthur immediately begins fidgeting and looking at everything but Douglas’s face.

‘Well, you can read. Why don’t you do it yourself?’

‘It’s better if you do it,’ says Martin simply. Douglas’s resolve, which was already crumbling from the pleading looks on his brother’s faces, takes its biggest blow yet. He does not answer for a moment, then:

‘Fine,’ he huffs, with a great show of reluctance. ‘Come in then.’ He turns away from the door and throws himself down onto a beanbag patterned with musical notes. Martin and Arthur edge into the room after him and slowly close the door. Douglas holds his hand out imperiously for the book, which Martin passes over quickly. ‘Well sit down then,’ Douglas instructs, slouching down still further in his seat and flicking absently through the worn pages. ‘Which story do you want? I’ll read you _one_ and then you have to go, okay?’

Martin hops up onto Douglas’s bed and shuffles back to lean against the wall in almost the exact position Douglas was in before, except he curls his legs up underneath him and keeps his eyes open. Arthur settles cross-legged onto the floor immediately in front of his oldest brother.

‘Can you do today’s?’ asks Martin. Douglas notices the pointed lack of response to his final condition, but does nothing more than raise an eyebrow as he flips almost to the back of the book to find the correct page. He clears his throat and begins to read.

Martin and Arthur listen avidly. Douglas really is a very convincing storyteller. Today’s is one of the longer stories, but even that only takes it to two or three pages and it is only a few minutes before Douglas is closing the book and ordering Martin and Arthur out of the room again.

‘What about tomorrow’s?’ Arthur suggests quickly.

‘I’ll read tomorrow’s, tomorrow,’ Douglas insists.

‘It’s really short though,’ says Martin, which is true; the entry for Christmas Day is a poem less than half a page long.

‘No.’

‘ _Please_?’ Arthur begs.

‘Just one more?’ Martin adds. He shifts so that he is laid on his front across the bed, legs bent and feet in the air, torso held up by his elbows, head resting on his hands, facing Douglas.

Douglas frowns and surreptitiously checks the story in question. It _is_ only a few lines long.

‘Fine,’ he relents, ‘but only this _one_.’

In the end, he is reading to them for well over an hour. After the poem for Christmas Day, Martin requests New Year. Then Arthur begs for his birthday, which leads to Martin claiming it is only fair to read _his_. Then it is Carolyn’s, Douglas’s and – reluctantly – Herc’s. Finally Arthur asks for Easter, which prompts a long and confusing debate about why there isn’t a specific date for that.

When just about every possible significant date (thanks to Arthur, this covers half the book) has been read at least once, Douglas insists that this _really_ is it, and refuses to read another word. He has to admit, though, that the task has certainly passed the time. Or _some_ time anyway; it is still only midmorning, and the rest of the day stretches painfully far ahead of them.

It passes much like the last few hours have: agonisingly slowly. Douglas could _cry_ with boredom. Martin actually _does_ cry once, although it has more to do with running face-first into his bedroom door than anything else. Even Arthur is restless.

It is almost a relief to be sent to bed in the end. Almost, because after longing for it all day – after being desperate to simply be alone and sleep away the remaining hours before the day of judgement – Douglas is not feeling in the least bit tired.

They have done everything. They have all had a drink of homemade eggnog (non-alcoholic for the three children, of course); they have set out cookies and milk; they have hung up their stockings, complete with the gifts they have already received from each other. Martin and Arthur are both, judging by the muffled sounds coming from their respective rooms, changing for bed.

Douglas stands in his pyjamas and stares out of his open window at the starry sky above. He does not think he could sleep if he tried; he is too jittery from a nauseating combination of nerves and excitement. It is a while since he really _whole-heartedly_ believed in Santa Claus, but there is still a part of him that… hopes, perhaps; a part of him that is struggling to relinquish his childhood faith. Part of him wonders what will happen if he stays here and watches all night… maybe he _will_ see something. Maybe… but he is being silly. Isn’t he?

He sighs. It is nice to pretend. And he really doesn’t feel like trying to sleep anymore. He grabs his beanbag and drags it over to set it beneath the window, pulls the quilt from his bed, and settles himself down for a long night.

00000

Arthur blinks. It is still mostly dark. He can feel the excitement building inside him like a physical thing, like a balloon inflating in his chest – almost like that time he accidentally ate the yoghurt that had gone all fizzy. He thinks he might actually _explode_ if he has to hold it in a moment longer, but he isn’t allowed to get up before seven o’clock, Mum is very strict about that.

It had taken _ages_ to fall asleep last night. He had to count all the glowing stars on his ceiling twice, and then recite carols in his head, and then make up stories which had mostly featured himself and his brothers going on adventures in Santa’s sleigh, which had only made him _more_ excited, and – it _must_ be time _now_.

He turns his head to the side and checks the little red numbers on his bedside clock: 6:58. His heart leaps with anticipation and he has to clap his hands to his mouth to stop himself making a noise. It _is_ almost time!

Arthur turns completely over onto his side now and curls up as though in an effort to physically hold in his joy. His knees are drawn up to his chest and both hands are still clamped over his mouth. His eyes are wide and fixed on the digital display of the clock. He is grinning, and his heart is beating desperately hard; he flexes his toes and bites his lip and wriggles where he lies just to let out some of his pent up energy.

The seconds tick past _so slowly_. He tries to count them in his head but keeps getting distracted and losing track. He jumps, startled, when the display finally clicks over to 6:59.

One more minute… one more minute…

He is making tiny squeaking noises of excitement and _trembling_ with the effort of staying still, and then – _7:00_.

With a great wordless cry of delight he leaps from his bed, throwing back the covers and landing hard on the floor, scrambling upright and lurching towards his bedroom door. He wrenches it open and prepares to throw himself into Martin’s room directly opposite – but Martin is already up and has had the exact same idea, so the two boys collide with a _crack_ in the middle of the hall and almost fall over backwards. Martin grabs onto Arthur’s shoulders, beaming fit to burst, and steadies them both.

‘It’s Christmas!’ Martin cries, as though he can hardly believe it.

‘I know!’ Arthur spins around, snatches up Martin’s wrist and pulls him across the hall and straight into Douglas’s room without knocking.

‘Wake up!’ Martin exclaims gleefully. ‘Wake up, wake up, it’s Christmas!’

Neither boy thinks anything of the fact that Douglas is asleep on his beanbag beside an open window, rather than in bed. Arthur bounds forwards and tugs the blanket away, positively jumping up and down in excitement.

‘What – hey!’ Douglas tries to hold the blanket back but Arthur is too quick, and he struggles into a more upright position as he peers blurrily at his brothers, for a moment completely disoriented.

‘IT’S CHRISTMAS!’ Arthur shouts. He tosses aside the blanket and throws himself into Douglas’s arms; Douglas catches him without thinking but it takes another second for his words to sink in.

‘It’s – what?’

‘It’s Christmas!’ Martin repeats. ‘Can we go and wake Mum and Herc up? Is it time? Please?’

‘It’s – OH!’ For the first time this year Douglas’s realisation comes without trepidation to spoil it; all he feels is pure untempered joy and an explosion of pleasant anticipation.

‘Merry Christmas Douglas!’ his brothers chorus; Douglas stands in one swift movement and swings Arthur up with him. He has to use both arms to hold onto his youngest brother, but he beckons awkwardly with one hand for Martin to follow him and, all alight with happiness, the three boys hurry, giggling all the way, towards the final bedroom. They pause at the door, where there is much shushing and stifled laughter, before Martin reaches out and – as though they have been utterly silent until this point and there is any remote chance that either of the adults are still asleep – opens the door as quietly as possible.

The room is dark, and neither Carolyn nor Herc seem to be awake. The three boys can vaguely make out two shapes on the bed. Douglas gently sets Arthur back on his feet without taking his eyes off the smaller of the two shapes. A devious grin, familiar to all who know him, spreads across his face. It is mirrored – somewhat – on Martin’s, and even Arthur looks a little more mischievous than usual.

They all take a deep breath and prepare to sneak forwards as quietly as possible.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Carolyn’s voice stops them in their tracks. She has not moved, nor given any other sign of consciousness, but all three boys freeze in the middle of taking a step and hold their breath. ‘Not one more move,’ Carolyn continues with perfect clarity. Douglas shoots a sideways glance at Arthur, who has both hands awkwardly held in the air and is standing on one foot, and Martin, who looks no less ridiculous in a half-crouching position but at least has both feet on the ground. Douglas does not say a word. Both of the others nod. All three of them advance another step.

‘Listen to your mother, boys,’ Herc cautions. He shifts slightly but does not sit up.

‘ _One_ ,’ Douglas mouths; Arthur has to press his hands to his lips again to stay quiet. ‘ _Two_ ,’ he continues; Martin moves into his ‘ready’ stance. ‘THREE!’ Douglas finishes, and the boys race forwards to throw themselves onto the big double bed, bouncing on the mattress with the intention of shaking the adults properly awake. No sooner have they landed, though, than both seemingly sleepy figures roll over with surprising speed and proceed to tickle them mercilessly.   

‘Mum, stop it!’ Douglas protests, pushing his mother’s hands away half-heartedly; Arthur is shrieking with laughter and Martin is complaining even more loudly than Douglas, though not making any real effort to get away.

‘Stop it – _stop_!’ Martin gasps, then, ‘Arthur, attack!’ He and Arthur jump into action and their combined strength (and Herc’s less than wholehearted defence) is enough to push their future step-father onto his back so they are practically sitting on his chest and tickling _him_. Douglas squirms away from Carolyn and knocks back into Arthur, who falls across Herc straight into Martin, who nearly falls off the bed. Herc catches him swiftly and hauls him back on, and as suddenly as it started the ambush is over. Martin is lying across Herc’s chest, heart still hammering wildly after his near-fall. Arthur is nestled between Herc and Carolyn, still grinning so much it is a wonder his cheeks don’t split open. Douglas quickly scoots backwards and sits cross-legged at the end of the bed, carefully out of his mother’s reach.

‘Well,’ says Herc, shuffling closer to the edge of bed so that Martin can sit between him and Arthur, ‘good morning to you too.’

‘Good morning,’ Arthur returns politely. ‘It’s Christmas!’ he adds, as though he can’t help himself.

‘Is it really?’ asks Herc, the smile evident in his voice. ‘Well, I suppose that means you’re all expecting presents then?’

‘It’s such a pity we didn’t buy you any,’ says Carolyn, her voice utterly deadpan.

‘Santa brings us presents, silly,’ Arthur admonishes her.

‘Oh no, not this year,’ Carolyn shakes her head sadly. The boys can just make out the movement in the near-darkness. Herc switches on his bedside lamp and floods them with soft yellow light. ‘You’ve all been much too naughty. It’ll be coal or nothing, I’m afraid.’

‘No!’ Martin protests, although he doesn’t sound completely sure.

‘Don’t you think?’ she teases. ‘What about you, Herc? Do you think they’ve been good enough for presents?’

‘Oh, I think we’ll have to go and see, won’t we?’ Herc suggests casually. Martin, Douglas, and Arthur are off the bed in a moment (Arthur and Martin both get tangled in the sheets on the way and nearly fall, but it hardly slows them down).

‘I’ve got to get ready first,’ Carolyn warns them. ‘You’ll just have to wait for me.’

‘Oh but _Mum_ –’

‘Don’t _oh but Mum_ me. You can manage a few minutes. Now shoo! Go and wait in one of your own rooms. I want to get dressed.’

Douglas opens his mouth to argue, but stops at the look on his mother’s face. ‘ _Fine_ ,’ he huffs, rolling his eyes and slouching moodily from the room. Arthur and Martin follow, dragging their feet. The door has barely closed behind them before there is an explosion of noise.

‘GET DRESSED YOU MERRY GENTLEMEN –’

‘Arthur, _what_ is that?’ Douglas demands, the sound of his voice receding as he leads his brothers into his own bedroom.

‘It’s a song!’ Arthur insists.

‘That’s not even how it goes!’ Martin sounds horrified.

‘Yes it is, it’s –’

‘No, it’s _God rest_ –’ Douglas interrupts.

‘What’s a God Rest?’

00000

Carolyn dresses as quickly as she can while Herc does likewise, and within a few minutes they are calling the boys to precede them down the stairs. They immediately break off from what sounds like Douglas and Martin trying to teach Arthur the names of all the reindeer and race out of Douglas’s room fast enough that they are all tripping over their own feet.

‘Careful!’ Carolyn warns loudly, as they thunder down the stairs and skid to a halt just outside the living room door, fidgeting restlessly and far too giddy for this time on a morning.

‘Give the old folk a chance to catch up,’ Herc calls good-naturedly; Douglas turns just in time to see the glare his mother directs at Herc.

‘ _Less_ of the old, thank you Hercules,’ she snaps.

‘My apologies,’ Herc replies smoothly, winking at the boys. Arthur and Martin suppress giggles. Carolyn’s glare becomes quite frightening and Herc assumes an expression more appropriate to a funeral, nodding solemnly.

‘Right,’ says Carolyn briskly as she reaches the hallway, ‘whenever you’re ready, then.’

Martin is the one who actually opens the door, but all three of them are gathered so closely together that it hardly matters. For a moment they are frozen on the threshold and this – _this_ , Carolyn thinks, is worth every single second of effort, every penny spent, every argument and tantrum and all of the nervous tension around this year’s festivities. It is worth everything. Douglas, Martin, and Arthur’s faces are transported with wonder. Arthur’s mouth has fallen open and Martin’s eyes are shining. Douglas is wearing the sort of smile Carolyn has not seen on him in months.

No matter that they were expecting it, no matter that it looks little different every year, they never seem to get used to the sight of the living room on Christmas morning. A very large part of Carolyn hopes that they never will, if it means that for at least one minute of one day each year she gets to see this kind of innocent rapturous delight on their faces.

‘Well go on, then,’ Carolyn urges. Like a switch has been flicked all three boys rush forwards; Arthur scrambles over to the side-table beside the fireplace and literally jumps in the air, cheering, when he sees the empty glass and crumb-filled plate.

‘He came, it was him, _he came_!’ he shouts, waving the glass as proof, grinning – if possible – more widely than ever.

‘Look at this, look at this!’ Martin calls back, reaching up and pulling down one of five foil-wrapped chocolate Santa Clauses from the mantelpiece.

‘There’s some here as well!’ Douglas hurries over to the Christmas tree, which now bears scattered candy canes across its branches where there certainly were not any when he went to bed last night. He casts a half-suspicious glance back at Carolyn and Herc, but even he seems quite ready to believe another explanation for their presence.

Quickly, while the boys are busy inspecting every corner of the room for new additions before they fall upon their own presents, Carolyn slips through to the kitchen and makes coffee for herself and Herc. By the time she comes back through, all of her boys – Herc included – are sitting down. Douglas is kneeling beside the overflowing stocking closest to the television (on the other side is the Christmas tree, and then the window). He has taken the stocking down from its hook above the fireplace and is pulling out presents one by one, feeling them, shaking them, even listening to them to try and work out what they contain. Martin is standing in front of his, which is in the middle and still hooked up, trying to peer in without removing it. Arthur is cross-legged on the floor on Martin’s other side, next to Herc’s armchair, clutching his largest present and trying to mimic Douglas’s investigations.

Carolyn hands Herc his coffee without a word, takes down Martin’s stocking for him, and then takes her own seat on the sofa.

‘Can we start?’ asks Martin eagerly, now on the floor with presents spilling across his lap.

‘How do you usually do things, then?’ Herc asks, and Carolyn is reminded – she had momentarily actually _forgotten_ – that this is his first Christmas with them since moving in. ‘You’ll have to teach me.’

‘Youngest first,’ Carolyn instructs, with a stern look at Douglas and Martin to stop them arguing. Both of them pout a little and neither relinquishes their hold on their chosen presents, but they don’t complain. Douglas’s fingers are just curling under the loose corner of the wrapping paper on his gift, but he makes no further move to open it.

‘Go on, Arthur,’ Herc prompts with a smile. He is pleased but a little bewildered by the strength of feeling that seems to buzz through the room as Arthur begins to tear at the paper, which is red and pattered with golden stars. He has not had a Christmas like this in a very long time. Not since he was a child, in fact. He has nieces and nephews but has never spent the actual day of Christmas with them, and he has no children of his own. He recalls, more vividly than he has in decades, himself at around Martin’s age. He remembers that innocent happiness. It is… he cannot describe the feeling of being able to even _partially_ claim responsibility for bringing it about in another. Part of it is pride, but the other… a sort of reflected joy? Second-hand excitement? He isn’t sure. All he knows is that he has never felt more a part of this family than he does right now. He has never been more ready to just make it official, here and now if he could, in this dimly lit room with the lovingly, childishly decorated tree and the hand-made paper chains, the twinkling fairy lights, the tinsel and the jumbled gifts; but most of all the four people he shares it with, and he knows that sounds trite, but – well – it’s true.

‘CRAZY GOLF!’ Arthur exclaims at last, tearing away the final piece of paper to reveal a garishly pattered transparent plastic case a little longer than his arm. It contains a selection of different coloured plastic clubs with matching plastic golf balls, and he is on the point of opening the zipper to get a closer look when Carolyn shakes her head.

‘Not now, Arthur,’ she says. ‘Wait until your brothers have had a look at theirs.’

‘Who’s that one from?’ Herc asks. Arthur searches frantically through the shreds of paper.

‘There’s no label.’

‘Well, that must mean it’s one of Santa’s,’ Herc reasons. Arthur beams.

‘Put the rubbish in here,’ Carolyn instructs, holding out a plastic bin-liner she has ready for the purpose. ‘Martin, it’s your turn.’

‘Mine’s from –’ Martin squints at the tag. ‘Uncle Weh – Well –’

‘Wellington,’ Herc puts in. His brother has accepted the boys almost as readily as he did, and though he rarely sees them seems to take every opportunity he can to spoil them rotten. The boys, including Douglas, all seem quite happy to refer to him as ‘uncle’ even though he is no actual relation of theirs.

‘It’s a plane!’

‘Not a bird, then?’ Carolyn quips.

‘What?’

‘Never mind. What type is it?’

Martin bites his lip with concentration as he reads the large letters emblazoned across the front of the box, running through them twice in his head to be sure before he speaks.

‘It’s a – a Vickers Wellington.’ He holds up the box to Herc, who is closest, to check.

‘That’s right,’ Herc smiles and nods encouragingly. 

‘Like Uncle Wellington’s name!’ Arthur looks delighted at the discovery.

‘Just like it,’ Herc replies. ‘I’m named after a plane too, but Martin already has that one in his room. He made it all by himself.’

‘Can I help with this one?’ Arthur asks immediately, turning to Martin who clutches the not-yet-assembled model plane protectively.

‘We’ll see,’ Carolyn cuts in quickly before an argument can develop. ‘Douglas, your turn.’

Douglas opens his present more slowly, but no less eagerly, than his brothers. Similarly his reaction when he finds the painting set inside is muted compared to theirs, but no less obviously pleased. Then it is Arthur’s turn again (a toy car as long as his forearm which he is ecstatic about mainly because it is bright yellow), Martin (a non-fiction children’s book simply entitled “Planes”), and Douglas once more (a brand new chess set).

It takes surprisingly little time to make their way through all the presents, especially given the pauses between each one as the boys inspect their latest gift. Nevertheless, the sun has fully risen by the time Douglas is reaching into his stocking one last time and groping around for the final present of the morning. Until now he has, in all the excitement, largely forgotten Herc’s promise for the first time in weeks. As his fingers close around the fist-sized, roughly wrapped ball in the toe of his stocking, he remembers.

The thunderous crush of disappointment is too much for him to hide, though he tries. It feels as though his chest is caving in under immense pressure, and his eyes are suddenly burning with unshed tears. Even with all his endless hours of worry and speculation, he had not realised until this very moment quite how desperately he had been hoping for Herc to keep his promise. And he has not. He has forgotten, or he has decided not to, or – does it matter why?

Douglas swallows hard and presses his treacherously quivering lips together. _Fine then_. It’s not like he ever expected anything different. He does not say a word as he examines the shaky _A_ scrawled across the crinkled paper of his last present, nor as he digs his fingernails in to open it.

He blinks.

‘It’s an apple,’ Arthur explains unnecessarily. He had given Martin one of his more elaborate hat creations. ‘Look, like this –’ he crawls over, takes the apple from Douglas’s unresisting hand, and proceeds to toss it impressively neatly from hand to hand.

‘I… thank you?’ Douglas tries, looking confused. Unseen by him, Carolyn and Herc share a deeply significant look; Carolyn nods seriously and Herc reaches around for something behind his chair.

‘Try it,’ Arthur urges. ‘It always makes me happy.’

‘O… kay,’ Douglas replies slowly, taking the apple back and doing as he is told.

‘See?’ asks Arthur eagerly. Douglas does not see. His mind is too consumed with a combination disappointment and shock at the strength of his own reaction.

 _Herc broke his promise_.

Douglas has been _relying_ on – but no, he hasn’t, because he has never once _expected_ – but – what is he supposed to do now? He hasn’t – he has never planned for this, he has been so focused on the actual moment of discovery that he has never thought beyond it.

‘Douglas?’ Martin shuffles towards them on his knees, frowning with concern. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ Douglas replies automatically. ‘Thank you for the apple, Arthur.’ He has stopped throwing it and now just holds it loosely in one hand.

Arthur opens his mouth as though to say something else, but it is Herc’s voice that they hear next.

‘Douglas?’ he begins gently. Douglas looks up, hardly daring to breathe. His heart leaps. _No_. It can’t – he isn’t – no. ‘I was going to wait until later, when things were a little quieter,’ Herc continues, still with one hand hanging down the side of the chair, hidden from view. ‘But I get the feeling you would appreciate it now.’

It seems to Douglas that the next few seconds take place excruciatingly slowly. He cannot help but hold his breath as Herc pulls the _actual_ final present of the morning from beside his chair. It had somehow never occurred to Douglas that, if it existed at all, the promised X-Box (although the _identity_ of the gift long ago lost its meaning) would not be with the rest of his presents.

Arthur and Martin, far from looking jealous, are grinning. They know what this is, and why, and have had plenty of time to get used to the idea. Douglas has no attention to spare for anything but the rather nondescript box in Herc’s hand. He is surprised the others cannot actually hear his heart beating.

‘Could you pass this to Douglas please?’ Herc asks Arthur, who takes the box with both hands and passes it to Martin, who hands it carefully to Douglas, who receives it as though it contains a bomb that could go off at any second. His eyes dart between the gift-wrapped box and Herc’s face. He daren’t _not_ look at Herc’s expression, but he cannot bring himself to look him in the eyes.

‘Is – is this –?’ is all he can manage. After weeks and months of speculation and uncertainty, this seems much too easy. This is surely not _it_? It is… too _simple_.

‘Yes,’ Herc replies simply. ‘I did promise, didn’t I?’

‘I –’ Douglas does not know how to react. It feels as though there is a supernova taking place inside him, there is such a roiling mess of emotions choking him into silence. Herc _didn’t_ break his promise, which means… which means Douglas has to – Douglas _can_ … trust him? It’s… can something so huge really take place so quickly? He can’t… he doesn’t know what to do. Does Herc – do any of them – even realise how important this has become? It’s isn’t like Douglas has discussed it with anyone. Are they oblivious, or pretending to be, or as anxious as him, or – what?

‘I know that nothing is going to change overnight,’ Herc explains calmly, and Douglas almost suspects he is reading his mind. ‘I don’t expect anything to be different immediately… but can this be a start, do you think?’ he suggests.

Douglas, lost and unsure what he is even _feeling_ , let alone what to say, looks instinctively to his mother. She nods and gestures towards Herc. Douglas glances at him, but then away again. He looks to his brothers, who both nod eagerly. Then – finally – he looks back to Herc.

‘Truce?’ Herc offers, holding out his hand hopefully.

Douglas stands up very slowly. He tucks the still-unwrapped box under his arm, half afraid if he lets go it will disappear. His legs are shaking as he takes the few stiff steps to stand in front of Herc. Then – as though it takes every ounce of effort he possesses – he shakes Herc’s hand.

It’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Douglas reads to Arthur and Martin is a real one. My siblings and I have had a copy for as long as I can remember. The "Planes" book is also real, but I Googled that one. The Monopoly came about as a result of a conversation with prettybirdy979... So thanks for that baby plot bunny as well!
> 
> More tumblr extras:  
> [What are the Calendar boys favourite treats?](http://elvendorkinfinity.tumblr.com/post/92322177998/what-are-the-calendar-boys'-favorite-treats)  
> [A fictional character meme (why I like them/why I don't, etc) with Calendar!Douglas.](http://elvendorkinfinity.tumblr.com/post/96037788418/thats-because-everyone-loves-douglas-would-you-be)


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